


The Royal Guard (Working Title)

by Seven_Shades_of_A



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Arthur remembers, Asexual Character, Because Merlin is everywhere except where he needs to be, Canon/Mythology mashup, De-Aged Merlin, F/M, Lots of Magic-Courage-Strength dynamics, M/M, Magical Creatures, Morgana Remembers, Most of the Knights are bi and pan, Multi, Pining, Queer Characters, Quest for Merlin, ace!Arthur, but no one else yet, eventual merthur - Freeform, eventual polyamory, slow-burn (Merlin/Arthur/Gwaine)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5014312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seven_Shades_of_A/pseuds/Seven_Shades_of_A
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hiran has been working alongside the Royal Guard since Emrys saved his life, but that does not mean all of the Guard see him as equal. His peers see him as only a cambion, a child of a human and one of the Fair Folk, while his superiors believe him to be someone much more dangerous. As the last of the peace summits between magical and non-magical people draw nearer, the prophecy finally begins and Hiran's life is thrown off-course as he pulls the Once and Future King from the river.<br/><br/>With Emrys gone in search of Arthur, extremists on both sides of the war decide to make one last attempt to win, regardless of the treaties. Hiran is forced to make a choice which could affect the entire course of fate: follow orders and allow the true Guard to reunite Courage, Strength, and Magic, or take matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which the Wheel Turns at Last

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of a beta test for an idea I'm playing around with. I've only got about half of the actual plot fleshed out and a full skeleton of a story. It's something of a fantasy epic, with a lot of mythogy in the mix. The world it's set in isn't quite ours or Albion. It's sort of a mix of both, taking modern settings and throwing in a few Age of Chivalry ideals - sort of what I think our world might be like if magic did exist. Flashbacks are in italics.  
> Please let me know what you think, as I'm still debating on how far to go with this story. I'll post two or three chapters and, if I like where it's going, I'll keep writing. I hope you all enjoy!

**Part One**

**Courage**

  

_“He was too quiet, or he was too loud. He took things too seriously, or not seriously at all. He was too sensitive, or too cold-hearted. He hated with every fiber of his being, or loved with every piece of his heart. There was no in-between for him. It was either all or nothing. He wanted everything but settled for nothing.”_

-Melissa

* * *

 

**Chapter One:**

**In Which the Wheel Turns at Last**

 

_Merlin swears to himself that this is the last time. He had thought the same on the trip before, when he had heard that same flare of power somewhere in these woods. But there had been nothing. Again. No matter how many times he felt such power, no matter how many times he let his hopes up once more, Arthur was never to be found. It had been so many years since Camelot, so many deaths of friends and family that it made his heart ache. Sometimes he had thought of giving him up. But if there was even the slightest chance that Arthur would return, only to find no one there to help him, he would consider that his true failure._

_He listens quietly from atop his horse. Around him, the closest one at least a dozen feet away, the seven of the Royal Guard search the area. The eclectic mix of their horses’ hooves clunking around the woods almost drowns out the sound of the birds singing off in the distance and the little squirrels and rabbits rushing to escape the riders. The air had been warm the previous day, but now carried the crisp wind of the oncoming autumn._

_It’s fading, he thinks to himself, frowning as he loses the last trace of the other power._

_“My lord?”_

_Merlin gives a sigh, turning to see Ashima riding closer. Out of all of the Royal Guard he has met, she and her family have always had the strongest sense of telepathy. He remembers when he met the first of her bloodline, several hundred years ago in a kingdom that had then been named Bahran, and he had been shocked even then at the powerful empaths her ancestors had been. She looks worried by his troubled expression. As the London chapter’s captain of the Guard, she’s always been the closest to him. But there’s something deeper than just loyalty between them. She is like family to him now, and he knows she regards him in the same way._

_He shakes his head, “There’s nothing here. We should return.”_

_She nods in understanding, but her warm brown eyes glance over him as though to make sure he’s alright before she turns her horse around and gives a sharp whistle. He’s not listening when she shouts out the commands to the rest of the Guard. Instead, his eyes travel across the trees and brush, hoping to see the familiar head of golden hair and broad shoulders once more. But Arthur is dead. He has been for over a thousand years now._

_Just as he turns to join the Guard once more, it happens again. Except this time it isn’t a flare. It’s a shriek. He winces as pain curves over the crown of his skull, barely noticing as the others do the same, and all he can hear at the moment is that terrified scream. It’s accompanied by the prickle of inexperienced magic so powerful that it makes his hair stand on end. He hasn’t felt a magical signature like that since Morgana. The idea makes his blood run cold._

_But he can feel the remnants of the subconscious cry even as his head rings only with the silence following the scream. He can feel the person’s terror, a paralyzing sort of fear accompanied by an almost animal sense of desperation. And he can’t find it in himself to turn away from someone who is in such a dire need of help._ On me _, he thinks, projecting the thought past his own mind and towards the Guard. He lets his mind travel the path ahead even as he races down it. The thundering of the horses drowns out all else now, but he only needs to feel the hum of the still-lingering magic._

 _He nearly tramples them in his haste when he finally finds them. They’ve come to a stream, the water deep enough that it reaches the stranger’s knees. Merlin only has a second to take in his unusual appearance. The man is wearing only breaches, his chest uncovered except for several large pieces of gold jewelry, and has_ _a mess of long black hair tied into several tight braids. Two coppery horns protruded from his temples and curl high above his head like those of an antelope, and even those were adorned with hoops of gold. But what catches Merlin’s attention was the fact that he is kneeling over something in the water._

_The man turns his head as he hears the horses, his eyes black as the night sky in the city, and he throws a hand out towards them with a snarl. All of the Guards are pushed off their mounts and thrown to the ground, the horses running scared at the magic. But the motion must have thrown off the man's balance because Merlin just barely catches sight of a head breaching the water’s surface. He can even hear it gasp for air, another scream breaking free before the man pushes it under once more._

_“It’s a child!” he hears one of the guard shout._

_Merlin is the first to get to his feet and he unsheathes Excalibur as he rushes towards the stream. The man is snarling something towards the water, the language harsh and guttural, but he cannot make anything of the foreign words. Small fingers grip the man’s arms, tiny fingernails clawing into his pale skin in a last attempt to cause him pain. Merlin pushes the man back with a thought, forcing him away from the child, and he motions for one of the Guard to drag them out of the water. He has his blade trained on the man’s throat even as two of the Guard grab him by the shoulders._

_He doesn’t struggle as the recognition flickers across his expression, and he manages to spit out one word, “Emrys.”_

_Looking back to where Hanna is helping the waterlogged child, Merlin hides his grimace at the name before he returns his attention to the horned man, “What is your name.”_

_“Eldis,” the man snaps, glaring at the child over Merlin’s shoulder._

_“Eldis,” he repeats, knowing that it's an uncommon name, even among the Fair Folk. “You are aware that murder of the innocent is prohibited by the law?”_

_“The child is not innocent,” Eldis all but snarls._

_He is still glaring at the child as though he would like to set them alight with the slightest thought. Merlin glances behind him to look once more. The child looks quite like Eldis, but there is something off about him. His dark hair is shorn, it's length too short to be pulled into braids, and his silken clothing is much less ornate. He, too, has horns – his golden and curved once around the side of his head like that of a ram’s. But his skin is a lovely bronze color instead of parchment like Eldis’s, and his eyes are not entirely black. They are just as dark, so much so that Merlin cannot make out the pupils, but the whites surrounding them are visible, at least. He can see pointed ears just peeking out beneath the boy’s dripping hair._

_He’s certainly what Eldis is, but not entirely. He almost looks like he could be human. But he also looks like an innocent child. Something about him strikes Merlin as familiar, but he cannot say what exactly, as he has certainly never seen the child before. And he makes a point of not interfering with the affairs of the Fair Folk. As he turns back to Eldis, he is shocked to hear the boy’s voice in his head._

Don’t let him kill me, Emrys _, he pleads._ I don’t want to die.

_The words hit him like a blow, their familiarity haunting. He looks frantically back at the rest of the Guard. They are watching him and Eldis as though nothing has happened yet. The boy is still staring at him, clinging to Hanna’s leg as though afraid. Pulling himself together, and telling himself that the boy can hardly be who he’s thinking of, Merlin responds._

You can speak to me? _he thinks._ What did you do to anger him?

 _The boy shakes his head almost imperceptibly,_ I don’t know. Please don’t leave me with them. If he doesn’t kill me, they will _._

_The pleading in the boy’s voice is enough to make Merlin cringe. He tries not to think of who he is reminded of, tries to keep that creeping sense of danger buried in his memories, but he can’t shake the memory of those pale blue eyes. Instead, he focuses on Eldis in front of him._

_“He has human blood,” Merlin guesses._

_Eldis gives a sharp, humorless laugh, “What does it matter?”_

_“It would mean that he is subject to the laws of Albion,” he continues. “Which, in turn, means that he is under our protection.”_

_He sheathes Excalibur, turning around to walk away, but stops as he hears Eldis laugh. All of the Guard look at the faerie as he does, the sound echoing through the hollow with the low hum of magic, but there is no mirth in his eyes._

_“Allow him to live, Emrys, and you seal the fate of not only Albion,” he shouts. “But that of yourself and your King, as well.”_

_That catches Merlin’s attention. He spins so quickly on the balls of his feet that his cloak swirls around him like in the movies of this modern age. Though he can’t see them, he can feel the rest of the Guard tense around him. Eldis doesn’t so much as flinch, even as excess magic sparks off Merlin’s fingertips like a live wire, but continues to smile morbidly._

_“He will walk the same path he walked in his first life,” Eldis continues. “Fate’s wheel turns and he will not stray. In the end, he will be your King’s undoing. And you will, once more, be powerless to stop it.”_

_As the last word leaves his lips, he pulls free of the two Guards’ grip and reaches for his belt. His every movement is blurred, as though he moves too quickly for their eyes follow, and Merlin barely has a second to react. Something suddenly barrels into him as he raises his hand in defense and he is knocked to the ground. The collision knocks the air from his lungs, making him feel as though he is being pressed between two stone walls. The hum of magic is reverberating through the back of his mind again, barely noticeable over the sound of the Guard rushing forward._

_Eldis is on his feet again and, having reached the child in the distraction, is holding him off the ground by his throat. He cries out at the feel of the faerie’s fingers cutting off his breathing, the scream echoing stronger through their minds than aloud. As Merlin pushes himself off the forest floor, the Guard manage to push back the shield of magic Eldis has around him. They are too many for him, but the boy’s eyes have rolled back into his head, and Merlin draws his blade instinctively. Whoever this boy is or was, he will not let another person die because of his idleness. Especially not a child._

♕ ♕ ♕

         Hiran wheezes as he hits the ground hard, the stone floor nearly slamming his jaw shut on his tongue. He only has seconds to regain his composure and roll out of the way as an axe slams down where his head had been. The air sings with the resounding  _ring_ of the metal slicing into the flagstones. He can see the sweat beading on George’s brow as he tries to land a blow, but Hiran has never been an easy sparring partner.

            However, George is easily the strongest of the Royal Guard’s newest generation. And with the constant strain of keeping up the incantation that allows him to look more human and holding himself back physically, on the Lieutenant’s orders, even he’s beginning to strain himself. It’s taking more effort than usual to keep from getting hurt. He’s aware of the eyes of the Guard on him, just waiting for him to slip and lose his temper.

            It’s not as though such a thing is unwarranted. He’s got more patience than most, a virtue preached by Emrys and taught to him by Ashima, but even he has his limits. It doesn’t help that they don’t actually see him as a Guard. They see him as Ashima’s adopted son, as a Cambion and one of the Fair Folk, as Emrys’s inexplicable favorite. He had always been under their protection. But now Ashima is dead and Emrys had long since disappeared. Without either of them, nothing has kept the rest of the Guard from proving what he already had suspected. They see him as beneath them.

            He dodges each swing of George’s axe, but makes sure to stay within arm’s reach of him. All Lieutenant Sands has given Hiran this time is a dagger, and a thinly veiled remark regarding his capabilities, and he wants to be able to attack at any convenient moment. He sees his opening and lunges forward. It’s only a split second, but he sees George’s smirk too late and realizes it was a feint.

            Turning as quickly as he can manage in mid-lunge, he manages to mostly get out of the axe’s path. But it’s not enough and it slams into the side of his helmet right where his horns had been. He cries out as white hot pain flashes behind his eyes, the impact making it feel as though George has struck his temple with a sledgehammer, and he stumbles back with his eyes screwed shut. Another blow strikes him across the chest and he struggles to stay on his feet.

            “Stop!” he gasps, throwing a hand out instinctively. “For the Goddess’s sake, stop!”

            The words aren’t even all the way out of his mouth when he hears George’s surprised shout, a sound which is shortly followed by the sound of an armored body crashing into the floor. He senses, rather than sees, the handful of the Guard who had been watching get to their feet and rush forward. Their worry for George lingers in the back of Hiran’s mind like music of a radio in a nearby room. Even as the pain in his head starts to fade to a dull ache, he feels someone gripping his arm too tightly and it takes all of his self-control to keep from lashing out.

            Memories of Eldis force their way into his mind and he can feel his throat closing up as though he is back in that forest. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears and, though he knows Lieutenant Sands is nearly growling something an inch from his face, but he can’t quite see him as though his vision is blurring. His breath is coming too quick and too shallow, but he can’t seem to think.

            The too tight grip is suddenly gone and he can hear another voice, this one clear and soft and he clings to it like a lifeline. It’s a voice he recognizes and trusts.

            “Hiran,” the voice says. “You’re safe. Stay in the present, okay? Tell me what you need.”

            He tries to get the words out, but his mind is a mess and his tongue has turned to lead. Instead of any intelligible, Hiran gives a rasping sort of breath and shakes his head, but Santiago understands what he needs. Santiago has always known Hiran well enough to handle the moments like this.

            “Focus on your breathing,” Santiago tells him, taking in audible breaths as if in emphasis. “Focus on me.”

            Hiran focuses on his friend’s words, like he says, on the rhythm of his inhales and exhales. His own are shaky compared to Santiago’s, but at least he isn’t about to hyperventilate anymore. It takes him a few more minutes, though they feel much longer, to calm down completely. He notices that George is standing right next to Santiago now.

            “Better?” Santiago asks him.

            Hiran takes one last deep breath, forcing his voice to remain even, “Better. Thanks.”

            He helps Hiran to his feet – he can’t remember when he fell to his knees – and George offers him a weak smile. He knows it’s not George’s fault that he’s awkward during his panic attacks. The three have known each other for years now, but George has always been better with steel than words.

            Hiran has barely straightened up when Lieutenant Sands’s hands are on him again. Sands isn’t a violent man, per se, but he has a temper that is notorious among London’s chapter of the Guard. And he seems to grow more agreeable to the use of force when Hiran is involved. Both George and Santiago are protesting as Sands pulls him towards the door, but Hiran shoots them a look and they back off. There’s no need for all of them to get into trouble.

            He can see the rest of the Guard watching him as he and Sands walk through the doorway. The door slams behind them, a sure sign of the Lieutenant’s anger. Hiran doesn’t protest when Sands pushes him roughly against the wall across from the door, though it’s well within his abilities to do so, and bites his tongue as the Lieutenant brings his face an inch away from his own.

            “What have I told you about watching your temper, Suresh?”

            It’s not really a question, even though it’s phrased as one. Sands’ tone is harsh and demanding, as though he can intimidate Hiran, and it’s obvious that he isn’t asking for a response. Hiran gives him one anyway.

            “I wasn’t angry, _sir_ ,” he says, almost spitting out the honorific. “George caught me by surprise and I reacted instinctively. He understands.”

            “Did I ask for your fucking opinion?”

            “Well…”

            Hiran makes a show of thinking about it, as if not too sure of what the answer is. He knows he shouldn’t intentionally antagonize Sands, something which George and Santiago tell him often, but he can’t help it. He’s put up with the Lieutenant’s bullshit long enough to not earn a few free passes.

            Sands must not see it that way because Hiran is bent over the next second as he feels the Lieutenant’s fist connect with his stomach. He tries to recover quickly, but can only manage to lean against the wall as he looks at Sands.

            “You aren’t a Guard, Suresh,” Sands snarls. “And this is my house. You don’t get immunity just because the late Captain thought you were a special snowflake.”

            Hiran gives a thin laugh, his voice still hoarse when he says, “Well, if I’m not a Guard, then you don’t have authority over me, do you?”

            Sands pulls his fist back, his free hand gripping the collar of Hiran’s breastplate, “You fu-”

            “Lieutenant!”

            Both freeze at the commanding voice that booms down the hallway. Hiran can see the grimace barely concealed as Sands lets him go and pulls away, obviously deciding that beating a subordinate isn’t worth getting into trouble with his superior. Both turn and stand at attention, though they both eye the other as they do, as Captain Michelson approaches.

            “Captain,” Sands greets stiffly.

            “Would you care to explain to me what you are doing with Mr. Suresh here?”

            Michelson’s tone is calm and quiet, his voice surprisingly soft for a man of his physique. But there is a hardness in his jaw, a severity in his brown eyes, that conveys the fact that he expects an answer and quickly. Hiran wouldn’t say that the Captain is a strict man – he never needs to be. There’s something about him that makes all of the Guard eager to please him. He doesn’t get angry, but his disappointment is enough to make even the most shameless Guard feel humiliated.

            “He was disobeying direct orders,” Sands manages to say.

            “Oh?” Michelson says, looking at Hiran in surprise before returning his attention to the Lieutenant. “Was he attempting to cause severe harm to his fellow Guards?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Was he using unnecessary force during sparring?”

            “Well, not-”

            “Then I fail to see how his actions would have, in any way, warranted such punishment,” the Captain says, cutting Sands short. “Mr. Suresh, come with me, please.”

            “But, sir!”

            “I believe you have a training session to finish, Lietenant,” Michelson points out. “Or am I mistaken?”

            Hiran can practically hear Sands’s jaw snap shut. Sands may not like him, but he’s certainly not going to argue with Captain Michelson over him. He nods stiffly, shooting Hiran a glare, and strides back into the sparring room. Hiran debates about whether or not to send the Lieutenant a smirk, but thinks better of it when he sees the Captain’s expression.

            “Come one, Hiran,” he says, though the words are close to a resigned sigh, and he turns to walk back down the hall from where he came.

            Michelson is a tall man, reaching well over six feet, and it takes Hiran two steps to keep up with every one of his. It makes him seem even more like a child in this situation. Whether or not the Captain even notices is hard to say, but he doesn’t bother to slow down.

            “Okay, I may have been using unnecessary force during training, but it wasn’t at all my fault,” Hiran says, almost skipping to keep up.

            “Is it ever?” Michelson sighs. “I understand that Lieutenant Sands isn’t particularly fond of your presence on his team, but you could at least try not to antagonize him.”

            “I don’t antagonize him!”

            Michelson stops so abruptly, Hiran nearly runs smack into him. As it is, he manages to step on the back of the Captain’s boots, but the older man doesn’t seem to notice. The pointed look he gets seems to be more related to the conversation they're having.

            “What?” Hiran exclaims.

            “I was here when Emrys first brought you to us,” Michelson points out. “It took two months for you to finally open that month but, once you did, there was nothing we could do to get you to shut it again. And we both know you’re a cheeky little bastard.”

            He starts walking again before Harin can even think of a retort. All that he has said is true, sure, but that doesn’t mean he is at fault.

            “We also both know that Lieutenant Sands hates me for what I am,” Hiran points out. “So do most of the Guard, for that matter.”

            “Your heritage has nothing to do with it, Suresh.”

            And there it is: another hint at whatever it is that they are all hiding from him. Though he isn’t sure if the newest generation is in on the secret, he can just tell that there is something important that Emrys and the rest of the Guard just aren’t telling him. He had seen it in both Emrys’s and Ashima’s eyes. And he can see it in Michelson’s eyes right now. Behind their smiles and kind words, they look at him as though afraid.

            “Then tell me what it is!” Hiran shouts, stepping up his pace so that he can walk in front Michelson and stop him. “Because it seems that no matter what I do, it’s never enough. So if I did something that was wrong, if there’s anything that you know that I don’t, just tell me. I’ve tried and failed enough already.”

            Michelson looks at him sadly, as though he wants nothing more than to do as he asks, but he doesn’t open his mouth. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his lips pressed into a hard line.

            “Just keep your head down and do what Lieutenant Sands tells you,” he says at last. “Best be on your way now, Hiran.” – he smiles suddenly, an amused glint in his eyes – “I’m sure the dynamic duo are prepared to tear this castle down in making sure you aren’t being punished.”

            Without further ado, he walks off down the hall once more. It’s a dismissal, Hiran knows, and he can do nothing but stand in the middle of the hall and watch as the Captain leaves him with the same evasive answer as everyone else does. It takes all of his self-control to keep from screaming in frustration. However, it doesn’t stop the flagstones from cracking under his feet.

♕ ♕ ♕

            Merlin barely notices as the wooden dock creaks beneath his boots. He is too preoccupied with his own thoughts, even the people milling about the market seem like the background scenery of a lackluster dream. The weariness has been taking its toll of late and he isn’t bothering with his usual disguise as an elderly traveler tonight.

            Why he ever thought he would find so much as a whisper in this miserable little seaside town is beyond him now. Never mind the fact that it is a town of charlatans and fools, where even the largest display of real magic couldn’t be recognized by the self-proclaimed sorcerers, the very atmosphere of the place is depressing. Even with the icy temperatures, the rain doesn’t freeze as it falls from the grey skies. He tugs the hood of his cloak in a vain attempt to keep from getting wet. But the water comes down at a slant, working its way through the fabric of his clothes so that even his bones feel cold.

            All he wants now is to return to his hotel room and fall asleep by the fire. The sooner the morning finds him, the sooner he can leave this wretched place. He tries to stay in the middle of the crowds, even though it is the best place to be trampled, as it means he is out of reach of the ‘sorcerers’ on the fringes of the docks. Their voices can be heard clearly over the din of the people, desperate and hungry timbres trying to sell phony spells and vials of colored water they call ‘enchanted elixirs’. Merlin hasn’t felt a single lick of power in the entire town. They’re just desperate people hoping to earn their next meal, even if it means conning tourists into emptying their pockets.

            The people in front of him are moving aside now, making way as three men and a cart full of linens comes his way. He sighs in resignation as he forces his way through people and out of the way of the cart. It brings him into closer proximity with the merchants and, even though the close proximity of the others trying to escape the cart is detestable, their shouting grates on his nerves.

            He is so tired these days.

            It isn’t the first time he has thought about giving up entirely. He has long since stopped counting the years, his exact age becoming more of how he felt at any given time than an actual measure of anything, and he is beginning to think that Kilgharrah was wrong. Or maybe his old friend had lied to him to make him feel marginally better. But it has been countless centuries and Merlin has not seen even the slightest hint of Arthur or the peril Kilgharrah had warned of.

            He tries not to think of Hiran back in London. At least, he assumes the boy is still in London. When he had shared his suspicions with that chapter of the Guard, even though he had also voiced his uncertainties regarding his theory, they had reacted as poorly as he had expected. Even with his express request that they treat the boy with the same respect as they would their comrades, he could sense their uncertainty and the tensions brewing just beneath the surface. He hopes the boy – probably a young man now, he thinks to himself – is alright.

            A hand grips his wrist suddenly, and Merlin is ripped violently from his thoughts by a sudden strong sense of magic. How he didn’t sense the presence before, he doesn’t know, but he has not felt such a strength in many decades. He is pulled through the crowds effortlessly until he finds himself face-to-face with a young woman. She is dressed in a ridiculous costume, much like the colorful and gaudy apparel of the other merchants, but he is struck by the little details he also sees about her. The handful of powerful talismans hanging from her skirts and throat, the tattoos of magical symbols just visible beneath her semi-sheer white shirt, the ageless look to her face matched only by the green eyes of an old soul.

            “You have an air of destiny about you,” she says, and her voice is so soft that he almost doesn’t catch her words.

            He blinks at her for a good minute, the more hysterical part of his mind wanting to laugh at her words, but he manages a dry, “Really? I hadn’t noticed?”

            She changes her grip on his wrist suddenly, the relatively gentle touch becoming painful as her long nails dig into his pulse. He hisses out a curse, though not a magical one, and tries to at least pull free. But she does not let go.

            “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t be so cynical, Emrys,” she chides, and he gets another hint of the timeless impression she gives off. “The others may not be able to sense it, but my people have always recognized you.”

            She lets go of his arm long enough to show her own, and he catches a glimpse of the triskele among the other tattoos. A Druid, he realizes. It has been quite some time since he had seen anyone bearing such a mark. With the passing ages, and the wider spread of acceptance of magic, many of the Druids had created families with non-magical partners. Their bloodlines became so intermixed that their culture had become more of a myth than a lifestyle.

            “What do you want?” he asks, though his tone is softer now.

            She smirks at him, but it is a gesture of amusement rather than derision, “Care to have your future told?”

            He scoffs at her, irritated that he had allowed her to draw him into her charade. But when he turns away, intent on returning to his rented room and turning in at last, she grabs his shoulder. There is a gravity in her expression when he looks at her again.

            “When I spoke of your aura, I did not mean your past, Emrys,” she tells him, and he shivers at the unrecognizable glint in her eyes. “You despair now for your lost king, but you may not like what comes with him.”

            Without waiting for his reply, she turns away and walks back to one of the patchwork tents, gesturing with a hand for him to follow. He thinks about leaving her there, remembering the last time he dared to know the future. But his curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself trudging after her.

            The tent is relatively small, maybe four feet in diameter, and the top of his head almost brushes the sheet that serves as the roof. There is a circular table within, and the woman has somehow slid around to the opposite side without rustling the fabric walls. The space is lit by orbs of light hovering above their heads and frankincense incense burns on the table. She gestures towards the seat closest to him, her eyes turning towards the bags tied to her edge of the table.

            The rickety wood of his chair creaks as he takes a seat and wobbles as though threatening to give way beneath him, and the girl chuckles at the alarmed expression on his face. Finally, she pulls three translucent slabs of something from the bag, and Merlin has to stifle a gasp as he recognizes them. The slabs are only about as long and wide as his hands and maybe an inch thick. But he can feel the hum of their power like an electric current.

            “The Cards of Andraste,” he murmurs, leaning forward to get a better look. “Where did you get those?”

            The woman smiles, her lips curling up into a strange grin, “Family heirloom. They will offer you signs, and I shall interpret them, as is the gift passed down through my family. You will not find a more accurate fortune, but it requires a blood price.”

            “One drop per card,” he answers. “I have heard the rumors.”

            “Do you accept the cost?”

            He hesitates, thinking that three drops of blood are hardly a steep price. But, at the same time, there are a number of dark spells that utilize blood. And a spell using his blood could potentially be dangerous.

            “Yes,” he says at last, surprising even himself.

            She nods, pulling a long, thin shiv from another pouch and gesturing for his hand. He offers it hesitantly, watching her carefully as she pulls him closer. He has to bite back a sharp gasp as she quickly pricks his index finger and presses against the puncture wound until blood visibly wells up in a near-perfect sphere on his skin. The druid drops her shiv into a vial of clear fluid, the liquid turning faintly pink as his blood is cleaned from the blade, and gently pulls his hand above the leftmost card.

            Merlin watches with interest as she turns his hand over and a single drop of blood falls onto the card. But it doesn’t remain on the surface of the crystalline material. Instead, it sinks into the card as though it’s made of water, but doesn’t lose any of its vibrancy. The blood flows throw the card like spilled ink on parchment, some of the larger splashes of his blood separating as it creates an image within the card. He can’t help but lean in further out of curiosity.

            The Cards of Andraste are legendary and, more often than not, people have dismissed them as being something of myth and legend. Merlin had often questioned their existence, but it is impossible for him to believe them to be make believe when he himself is something of myth and legend.

            The legend was told of the Iceni kingdom and their threats from a province far away on the southern half of the mainland. Their Queen, Boudicca, had sought out a long-forgotten goddess of prophecy and victory after an emperor of the South demanded the absolute surrender of her people. Though what stories had remained of Andraste had been of her darker side, of her patronage over warfare, Boudicca had been desperate for her peoples’ freedom. Traveling to the goddess’s sacred grove, Boudicca had called upon the goddess in the hopes of an encouraging prediction.

            If the myth was to be believed, the goddess had indeed come down in answer of Boudicca’s pleas. She had offered the Queen her blessing and a reliable way to foretell the future, so long as war prisoners were offered to her, and an agreement was struck. It was said that Queen Boudicca had won her many battles against the emperor by using the cards to foresee his every move, and some even believe the Queen had become a human incarnation for the Goddess after their agreement.

            Merlin is brought back to the present as he hears the Druid inhale sharply. The blood within the card has still at last, its brilliant color contrasting sharply with the cream-colored tablecloth so that the image within the card can be clearly seen. Within the card is the image of a series of stars swirling around in a pinwheel-like shape.

            “The wheel of stars,” the Druid says. “It is a symbol of time and karma. What you wish for so desperately, Emrys, will come to be. All that once was shall be once more. But be wary, for you may find yourself traveling the same path as before – finding both peace and war. Make the wrong choice and you will be forever trapped in this never-ending circle.”

            The words are barely out of her mouth when she guides his hand above the rightmost card and presses her thumb into his finger as another drop falls. It takes less time for this one to bloom into the next image, or maybe it’s simply because Merlin is paying more attention now than he had been before. This time it was of two figures with their hands clasped. The first was a woman with her hair tied up in braids and a battle ax in her free hand, the second is a cloaked man with skeletal arms and mist curling around his feet.

            The Druid’s grip stiffens on his wrist as she whispers, “Lady War and Lord Death. There are two who stand in your way, who would see your ideals and philosophy of peace destroyed. They are already working against you, operating exactly where you believe to be most protected, but not all is as it seems. Allow them to fool you, and they shall win.”

            “I’ve changed my mind,” Merlin says, drawing away as he feels the prickle of dark magic against his skin. “This was a mistake.”

            But her grip on his hand is like iron and the words of magic in his mind have fled as she draws his hand above the central and final card. The entire atmosphere within her tent has changed, eroding from an aura of faux mysticism to a very real sense of danger. The picture within is that of three men, standing in front of a waxing-full-waning moon symbol, and arranged very much in the style of the modern depictions of the Triple Goddess.

            “The triad of power,” she tells him, gripping his wrist so tight that her nails bite into his skin. “You are familiar with this, Emrys. You will reunite with your counterparts, although they will not be the same, just as you are not the same. Only together can you reunite Albion entirely.”

            For the first time since she began reading his fortune, she looks up at him. But she is not the same young woman who picked him out of the crowd. Gone is the quietly intuitive girl who had been looking for a meal ticket, in her stead is a wickedly intelligent sorceress hiding among the swindlers, and Merlin can’t help but gasp at the sharp grin she gives him. There is a distinctly malevolent glint in her green eyes.

            “Who are you?” he demands.

            “Rhiannon.”

            It’s the last word he hears before the world goes black.

♕ ♕ ♕

            “You alright, Hiran?”

            Hiran looks up from his pint just in time to see Santiago slip onto the barstool beside him and George walking around to his other side. He stifles a groan at the sight of them. They’re in one of his favorite bars, a little hole in the wall where both magical and non-magical people actually get along fairly well, and his favorite place to pick up people looking for no-strings-attached sex. His mood momentarily plummets at the sight of his friends, as he had been telepathically flirting with a lovely genderqueer scholar across the bar.

            “Fine,” he says amiably, never able to stay angry around George and Santiago. “Just getting to know Jay there.” – he motions towards Jay with his beer, offering them a wink – “They’re into botanical magic and its potential for personalized medicine, especially used towards incurable diseases.”

            The Guard can say all they want about Hiran’s taste in the physical aspects of his one-night stands, but they can’t say he sleeps with everyone. He likes people with hopes and dreams and the tenacity to go after what they want. George has said, on several occasions and always against Hiran’s objections, that his taste might be because he cannot go after what he wants with his standing among the Guard. Hiran always tells him promptly to shut up. He doesn’t admit that George isn’t entirely wrong, at least not aloud.

 _Leave George to be the quiet one who’s actually too damn smart for his own good_ , Hiran thinks as he takes another gulp of his beer _._

            “First you pick a fight with Sands,” George mutters. “Then you go looking for a shag? Do you ever slow down?”

            “And miss out on life’s many pleasures? Not a chance in the underworld, Mitch.”

            George scowls at that, allowing Hiran the slightest amount of satisfaction. No one with half a brain calls George by his last name, much less by the shortened form of it, and only Hiran ever gets away with it. It had been the joke of the Guard for weeks. George Mitchell.

            “Someone’s been watching too much telly,” one of the newest gen had said, snickering.

            Hiran had winced when he heard it. He couldn’t help but wonder if his parents had known what they were doing when they had named George, and what they’d been thinking to do so, or if it was just a really bad coincidence. _Being_ _Human_ had been a bit of a joke among the Guard for its unrealistic portrayal of werewolves, vampires, and ghosts. It was always a guilty pleasure of Hiran’s, as he has firsthand experience with all three races that didn’t involve swords and tense, diplomatic conversations. He could sit back and admire what the creators had been trying to do. That and Aiden Turner was hot.

            “Would you stop acting as if everything is a joke?” Santiago demands, his tone just light enough to convey his concern. “All we’re saying is that you should be a little more careful. Some of the staff around the palace are saying that Captain Michelson had to tear Sands away from you, and you know that rumors just make him angrier. We don’t want you getting hurt.”

            If George is the blunt hammer, waylaying anyone with not only brute force behind each swing but also with the observations that no one wanted to acknowledge, Santiago is a doctor’s scalpel, cutting to the heart of the matter with the intention of healing a wound. Sometimes Hiran wonders why he had to get the two most annoyingly compassionate Guards as his friends. Other times, usually when he’s drunk, he admits that they would never have been his friends were they not compassionate enough to look past the fact that he’s not entirely human.

            “I’m fine,” he assures them, patting both on the back. “Maybe if you’d take some of my advice, pick up a nice girl, you’d stop mooning over Halima.”

            Santiago turns fifteen shades of red, the blush crawling up from his neck all the way to his ears. Not many of the Guard know of his crush on Halima, who is one of the most selfless and not-to-be-fucked-with Guards that Hiran has the good fortune of calling a friend, and Hiran himself wouldn’t know if his incubus blood didn’t allow him to instinctively know things along that vein. Of course, Halima is just as interested in Santiago. The only thing that keeps them from saying anything is the unspoken law against dating among the ranks. Although he wants nothing more than to be an official Royal Guard, Hiran will admit from time to time that they have some of the dumbest rules he’s ever come across. And he lived among the Seelie Court for the first nine years of his life.

             George wastes no time in swatting him upside the back of his head, “How many drinks have you had?”

              “Why do you care?”

              “Because you’re only spiteful when you’re tipsy.”

              He gives George a hard glare, “You know it takes a lot to get me drunk.”

              No one has ever been able to explain that exactly. He supposes it has to do with being a cambion, but he can’t exactly test that theory. It did, however, allow him to swindle quite a few new visitors out of their money.

              “How many drinks has he had, Lou?” Santiago asks, flagging down said bartender.

              Lou, who could be in his fifties or in his two hundreds - which really didn't make a difference when it came to people with magic - and just look younger, gives a half-smirk. He’s been serving them since they came in with fake ID’s at fifteen, despite probably knowing that they were too young, and was said to have owned the bar since it opened seventy years prior.

              “Three shots of tequila, two of Jack, and four pints,” Lou answers easily.

              He’s not exaggerating. Anyone who’s spent more than two nights in _The Surly Warlock_ knows Lou’s memory is more reliable than the weathermen on television. If he says something, it’s most likely an exact fact or, at the very least, something he's heard word-for-word.

              “Right,” Santiago mutters, taking Hiran by the arm. “Time to go.”

            “I’m not drunk,” he murmurs darkly, but doesn’t resist when he’s tugged off his chair.

 _Maybe next time, gorgeous_. It’s a thought directed towards Jay, but he must be tipsier than he thought because both George and Santiago give something between a laugh and a scoff. Jay looks his way, rolling their dark brown eyes, and sends him a noncommittal, _mm-hm_.

           George stops just long enough to pay Lou for the drinks Hiran had, returning to his friends not three seconds later. They walk out the door and both Santiago and George shiver as the cold night wind hits them. Hiran doesn’t feel the cold as deeply as they do, as he can still remember the chill that crept through the woods of his childhood, and wonders if it’s getting all that much colder. It’s barely into autumn, after all.

          When they reach Westminster bridge, Hiran does something he hasn’t done in a very long time: he pulls himself onto the handrail and walks along the top of it. George rolls his eyes at the display, but Santiago about has a fit.

           “Are you out of your mind?”

           “Relax,” Hiran tells him. “It’s not as though I’ll fall.”

           Mother-hen Santiago. That’s what George had called him when they were younger. Both George and Hiran had made an agreement to never call him that aloud, especially after meeting Santiago’s four younger brothers, who definitely provided the reason behind Santiago’s maternal instincts. It doesn’t stop him from constantly fretting over his friends, though.

            Hiran is pulled from that train of thought as his eyes catch something among the dark waters of the Thames below. It’s just a flicker of movement, a slight disturbance among the water that doesn’t belong, and he turns fully on the handrail as he seeks it out again.

            “What are you doing?” George asks.

            Hiran doesn’t look at them as he says, “There’s something down there.”

            “Probably trash,” George laughs. “Come on. It’s freezing out here.”

            And there it is again. He only catches the slightest glimpse of it, and then it’s gone again, almost as though it is constantly pulled under by its weight. He may not have seen much of it, but he could tell it wasn’t trash. He kneels down and steadies himself with one hand gripping the handrail. When he catches a slightly better glimpse, it takes him a minute to convince himself that he really isn't _that_ drunk.

            “That’s not trash,” he announces. “That’s a person.”

            “What?” Santiago exclaims, leaning over the edge and squinting into the darkness.

            “Oh, come now,” George snaps. “There’s no way anyone is taking a dip in the Thames, especially in this weather. You’re drunk, Hiran. Let’s go home.”

            As if to emphasize his point, he walks a few steps away. Neither Santiago nor Hiran move an inch as they watch the water. He stops, even turning to look at them, but George is too stubborn to go back and join them.

            “Are you certain?”

            Hiran can feel Santiago’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t bother looking in his friend’s direction. He’s searching for any sign of the person in the river. He may be drunk, but his eyes have always seen more clearly in the dark than his friends, and he’s certain of what he saw. And then, he sees it. Hair plastered down to someone’s head, their mouth opening wide as if to gasp for air and their arms swinging outward as if looking for purchase in the current. It takes just a second for Hiran to stand up straight and judge the distance.

             “Yes!” he says.

             And, without waiting for Santiago to say anything in reply, he pushes himself off the bridge and dives into the freezing water.


	2. In Which Not All Hot Blondes in Rivers are Nymphs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, guys. I've been ridiculously busy of late.  
> By the way, if I'm going to continue this story (which I probably will), I'm going to need a Brit-picker/beta reader. I try to be careful with my word choice, but sometimes Americanisms slip out without my noticing. Let me know if any of you out there are interested.

**Chapter Two**

**In Which Not All Hot Blondes in Rivers are Nymphs**

 

            Arthur isn’t entirely certain what is going on. All he remembers is Merlin calling his name, a cold feeling creeping through his body and seeping into his very bones, and then a comforting warmth not unlike being wrapped in a blanket. He inexplicably feels as though he’s been sleeping. The idea is utterly ridiculous, though, as he knows he didn’t ever get back to his bed. But a voice had whispered in his ear that it was time to wake up after the immeasurable rest, stirring him from emptiness he seems to have been surrounded by and now he is cold again. And wet.

            He’s going to kill Merlin if he’s thrown water on him again to wake him up. It’s only when he manages to open his eyes, finding himself absolutely surrounded by water, that he realizes something is very wrong. Part of him wonders how he found himself in his current predicament, the other part is trying very hard to focus on not drowning.

            Gasping for breath as he manages to breach the water’s surface, he flings his arms out haphazardly in the hope of finding a branch or rock or something that he can hang onto. But there seems to be nothing around him and the weight of his clothes and armor serve only to pull him further down. His fingers fumble with the clasps of his armor, but his fingers are numb from the icy water and he can’t seem to get a good grip on the metal.

            This is it. He’s going to drown in freezing cold water because his armor is too heavy. He’s going to die. Again.

            _Again?_ , a part of him thinks. But he doesn’t have enough time to think of his first death. The more rational, instinctive part of him is more worried about the fact that his lungs are starting to burn and he’s sinking ever further into the water. Being stabbed was a good deal more agreeable than drowning, he decides.

            Before he can think further on the positives of his first death as opposed to his impending one, he feels an arm wrap around his chest just below his arm. The gesture takes him by surprise, but he doesn’t have long to really process it as he’s dragged slowly back to the surface. He takes a gasp of crisp autumn air as they reach the surface. Over his shoulder, he can hear his rescuer’s own heavy breaths.

            “Can you swim?” a voice by his ear says.

            Arthur manages a nod, his throat feeling dry and hoarse like the time his throat was inflamed as a child. If his rescuer notices, he offers no acknowledgement, and seems to look around frantically.

            “Then I’m going to need you to help out a bit,” the man says. “It looks like I’m going to have to pull us up, and you’re awfully heavy.”

            If the situation was less dire, Arthur would have protested to that. Sure, Merlin had recently had to hollow out another notch in his belt, but he certainly hadn’t gained _that_ much weight. Still, he puts as much effort into helping to keep them afloat and helping them to move as he can while his rescuer pulls them both towards a stone wall. A river, Arthur realizes, they’re in a river.

            As they reach the wall at the river’s edge, he can feel his rescuer looking up at the stone. It is rather high, too high for them to jump and reach the edge with nothing to stand on beneath them, and Arthur wonders how the man holding him expects to get them both out. But then he’s being spun around and finds himself face-to-face with the man.

            In the faint moonlight, it’s hard for Arthur to make out too much of the man’s face. He’s certainly younger than the King had expected, perhaps in his early twenties, and has wild black hair that reaches the nape of his neck and curls around his ears like ivy. His skin’s maybe a shade darker than Elyan’s, but it’s his eyes that make Arthur gasp. He’s never seen anything like them before. His eyes are colored like the velvet of Agravaine’s cloaks, but their irises are nearly invisible. They’ve been diminished, almost entirely blocked out like an eclipse, by the pupils. They remind Arthur of Morgana’s cat when the mangy beast was on the hunt of something.

            “Hold on,” the man – gods, Arthur hopes he’s a man – says.

            He is barely given time to drape his arms over the man’s shoulders before they are pushed towards the wall. Arthur barely hears the words his rescuer speaks, but the hair on the back of his neck prickles as recognizes the tone, and he stiffens. The man is using magic. He does not have time to protest as the man raises one hand above both of their heads, gold light swirling in what little of his irises that can be seen, and they are rocketed out of the water and into the air.

            He lands on top of the man as they hit the top of the wall, causing the man to gasp as he’s crushed beneath Arthur’s armor. Two other men rush to their sides, one helping the King to his feet, the other kneeling down beside the now wheezing man. Arthur can’t help but stare at his surroundings as he’s pulled upright.

            “You alright, Hiran?” the kneeling man asks.

            Arthur’s rescuer – _Hiran_? – gives the faintest of nods and slaps the man’s chest faintly as he rasps, “Peachy.”

            Arthur’s turning in circles as he looks up at the city around them again. It certainly doesn’t look like Camelot, with such strange buildings that seem to be made of stone and steel and cut higher into the sky than he’s ever seen. Almost every window is filled with light, nearly blocking out the stars above. And then there are the men themselves. They were dressed in the strangest fashion. Their tunics were too short, coming to only their waists, and their oddly bulky boots only came up to their ankles. Their coats were thicker than what Arthur was used to, and only extended as far as their tunics. The fair-skinned man’s tunic sported the image of a triangle with a rainbow extending from one side.

            Arthur certainly hasn’t seen that family crest before. And neither of the others are wearing symbols on their clothing, nor on the sheathes that hang at their hips. Is the fair-skinned man a knight and the other two his servants?

            “Is he wearing armor?” Hiran asks, pushing himself off the ground. “Did I rescue a cosplayer? Because I will happily push him back in - you know I will.”

            Arthur raises his eyebrows at the almost irate tone of voice, “Pardon. Are you referring to me?”

            “Who are you supposed to be? Prince Arthur?”

            “ _King_ ,” Arthur exclaims. “Do you honestly expect me to believe you don’t recognize me? Where are we?”

            “Goddess above, he’s just mental,” Hiran laughs, sounding vaguely hysterical.

            The kneeling man looks at Arthur quizzically, narrowing his eyes as he says, “London.”

            _Well, that doesn’t sound particularly familiar_ , Arthur thinks irritably.

            “Which kingdom?”

            “Kingdom?” the fair-skinned one says, looking towards his companions in confusion. “Are you pissed?”

            “Albion hasn’t been divided into kingdoms for centuries,” the kinder man says, and Arthur gets the impression that he’s realizing something important. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

            Arthur thinks about that carefully, but he feels as though he’s wading through mud whenever he tries to recall exactly what he last remembers. It is disorientating and frustrating and he pushes his damp hair back with a hand as he tries to think.

            “I remember shouting, someone shouting, but everything was dark then,” he says slowly. “Before that…we were traveling to the Lake of Avalon after Camlann. I think I was dying.”

            The three men go silent at his words, exchanging glances between each other. There is a sort of bond between them that is almost tangible in that moment, as though they have known each other for a very long time and know what the others are thinking, and it reminds Arthur of how Lancelot, Elyan, Percival, Gwaine, and Leon had been.

            “If he’s a cosplayer, he’s a pretty damn inaccurate one,” the fair-skinned one says to the others. “And he’s two days late for the celebrations.”

            But Hiran, the one who pulled him from the river, steps forward and looks at him suspiciously, “You said ‘we’. Who was traveling with you to Avalon?”

            “My…friend,” Arthur answers. “His name is Merlin.”

            If he isn’t mistaken, Arthur almost swears he sees recognition in the dark eyes, but he can’t be sure. There’s something about this man that makes him feel uneasy. It’s not that he feels as though he should fear Hiran, but more along the lines of he should know this man but doesn’t. At his words, Hiran looks even more surprised.

            “Merlin,” he echoes. “Could you describe him for me?”

            Arthur blinks at him in confusion but says, “He’s about my height, black hair, grey eyes; he’s a bit gaunt in the face.” – he puts hands up on either side, miming as he doesn’t know how exactly to politely describe the next attribute on his mind, and knowing that Merlin will kill him if he finds out – “Ears.”

            “Fuck me,” Hiran groans, pressing his hands to his face, and the next string of words out of his mouth are decidedly not English.

            “In English,” the fair-skinned man says, looking slightly irritated by his companion’s actions.

            “He’s the real thing,” Hiran says, pulling his hands away to bow deeply to Arthur. “Guys, meet Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King.”

            Both men exchange another glance, this one markedly confused, as Arthur stares at Hiran.

            “How can you be sure,” the kind-eyed one asks.

            Hiran looked grim, never taking his eyes away from Arthur’s gaze as he straightens up, “Because he just described Emrys’s true form.”

♕ ♕ ♕

              _It’s two months after his arrival in the palace when Hiran is called to Emrys’s chambers. Although the servants and Royal Guard seem to be uncertain as to how to behave around him, they are mostly kind to him, despite the fact that he hasn’t spoken aloud to any of them. Or telepathically. He doesn’t want to get to know them, for fear that they’ll end up hating him just like his old family. Other than not actually speaking to anyone, which is hardly a crime, he can’t think of a single reason why Emrys would want to see him._

_The doors to Emrys’s chambers are made of oak, instead of the usual alder found in the palace, and imbued with magic so old that it often makes his skin itch. Protection spells, he knows. Sometimes he can hear the hum of it all the way in his room. He knocks lightly on the wood, feeling a little trepidation at being alone with the most powerful warlock to walk the Earth._

_Instead of receiving an answer, the heavy wood door slides open as though it had been left unlocked. Hiran hesitates before it. If the door had opened through magic, that meant Emrys had to be within, but the idea of it being left open without Emrys inside was even more frightening. And much more tempting. He pushes the door open ever so slightly, poking his head in just enough to look inside. What he sees within prompts him to step inside and close the door behind him._

_The threshold he had just stepped over might as well have been a tear in time, as the room around him looks like something from a period piece or a fantasy movie. There are shelves on every wall, apart from the one directly opposite of Hiran, which has two half-opened doors. A messy bedroom is just visible through one and the other seems to hold a couch. Hiran can’t tell, as it’s only open about an inch. But the stone floor is covered in beautiful patterned rugs laid haphazardly over each other to create a plush surface beneath his feet._

_The shelves are cluttered with odds and ends – ingredients for spells and potions, talismans, healing crystals, small sculptures and carvings, and books of every size and color – and the entire space is lit by a handful of glowing orbs that hover six inches from the ceiling. A desk cluttered with paper, pens, and more books is shoved against one of the few empty spaces on the walls and there’s a fireplace with a cauldron hanging over it to Hiran’s right._

_He’s turning around in circles, trying to take everything in at once, when his eyes catch something on one of the shelves closest to him. It’s a necklace hanging just off the edge of the shelf. He takes a few steps closer to get a better look, realizing that it’s a ring and a dragon scale pendant hanging from the silver chain, but he can’t make out what’s engraved onto the silver scale. Growing ever closer, he reaches out to touch it. There’s something about it that looks familiar…_

_“That was Gwaine’s.”_

_Hiran snatches his hand back and straightens up his posture at the familiar rasping voice. He turns, his face heating with embarrassment, as he catches sight of Emrys standing in the open doorway. There is a cloak covering the warlock’s long white hair that also obscures half of his face in shadow, but it doesn’t look as though he’s angry._

_“I’m sorry for entering uninvited,” he whispers, bowing his head._

_Emrys steps into the room and the door swings shut of its own accord. He pulls down his cloak, revealing eyes that are full of affection and the slightest hint of the ever-present grief, and Hiran stifles a sigh of relief. Emrys isn’t angry with him._

_“Oh? But I did invite you.”_

_Emrys smiles, and the lines around his mouth grow more pronounced. But there’s a tightness around his eyes as though he’s in pain, Hiran notices, and he moves with a stiffness that isn’t the same as that of the elderly._

_“Are you alright, Emrys?” Hiran asks. “Are you injured?”_

_Emrys gives a laugh, and the sound reminds him of the cracking of wood as fire eats through it, “You’re very perceptive, Hiran. I’d like to show you something. But I must know that you can keep a secret first. Can you do that for me?”_

_Hiran nods fervently in answer, but bites back a question as to what it is that the warlock wants to show him. Emrys walks past him, his floor-length red robes brushing against Hiran as he does, and over to the desk. He places his hands on the rough wooden surface and closes his eyes. Suddenly, he pitches forward slightly, his lips parting in a soft gasp. Hiran’s heart catches in his throat, but something tells him to stay where he is. He doesn’t even move when Emrys’s nails score shallow lines into the desk._

_He watches in awe as Emrys’s white hair seems to retreat back into his scalp, turning to a rich black as its reaches his skin. The warlock’s very skin seems to stretch and pull taut, the lines and spots fading as it does, and Hiran can hear the faint crack of bones shifting. It’s one of the most astonishing displays of magic he’s ever seen. For those who are not born or made into shapehshifters, changing what one looks like is particularly difficult. It takes immeasurable strength and focus, and Hiran has only seen it done once before. Somehow, this instant is more impressive, perhaps because it is being accomplished by a human._

_When Emrys is finally done, he is breathing heavily and shaking ever so slightly. But he straightens up immediately, his body now that of a youth in his twenties, and offers Hiran a lopsided smile. He rolls his shoulders back and forth as his long, thin fingers pull the cord at his collar loose and the robes slip to the floor. He is wearing jeans and what looks like an old tunic beneath and Hiran’s jaw drops at the sight. This young man before him is certainly not what he expects as the great and powerful Emrys._

_“It’s terribly strenuous, keeping that spell up,” Emrys says genially, stuffing the robes beneath the desk with a booted foot. “I’m glad you noticed.”_

_Hiran takes a second to pick his jaw up off the floor, watching as somehow-Emrys walks across the room and pulls the necklace gently off its shelf. He handles it carefully, as though the slightest force might make it shatter, and holds it aloft so that they both can see it._

_“He used to wear it every day, without fail,” Emrys says, his eyes lost in a bygone age as he speaks. “At his funeral, I couldn’t bear to let it burn with him, but I like to think he would not have minded that I kept it. The ring was his mother’s, and the pendant has his family crest engraved onto it. It’s too dark in here to see it...”_

_Hiran clasps his hands together and brings them to his lips. He splays his fingers, as though letting something go free, as he blows gently against his fingers. Little flecks of blue light flit erratically around the air as he does so, making everything in the room a little more visible. Emrys looks up with a smile as the gesture seemingly pulls him from his thoughts._

_“Thank you, Hiran.”_

_Hiran beams at the words, but says nothing for a minute as he looks at the necklace in Emrys’s hand._

_“Who was he?” he asks, never taking his eyes off of the pendant._

_Emrys gives that far off smile again as he says, “He was a knight of Camelot and a personal friend of both myself and Arthur Pendragon. You’ll likely learn more about him the longer you stay here.”_

_Hiran watches silently as Emrys tucks the necklace into his pocket and sits down on the chair at the desk. He flicks his wrist towards something behind Hiran, his eyes glowing gold for an instant, and the sound of something sliding over the rugs. Motioning towards the stool that has moved from under a shelf, Emrys waits until Hiran has also taken a seat before speaking._

_“Ashima tells me you’re having nightmares.”_

_Hiran winces, but says nothing. He had hoped that no one would notice his sleepless nights, as it had been years since he woke up screaming in the dark, but of course Ashima had noticed. She has seemingly taken it upon herself to act as a mother figure for him. She’s kind and attentive, but she’s also highly perceptive._

_He doesn’t want anyone to know about the nightmares, though, regardless of whether or not Ashima or Emrys can help. He doesn’t want to remember them himself._

_“She also says you haven’t spoken a word to anyone besides myself.”_

_“That’s true, my lord.”_

_“Why aren’t you speaking?”_

_Hiran shifts uncomfortably on his stool, not wanting to lie to Emrys while also not wanting to say the words aloud. Saying them aloud, and to someone else, makes them seem more real. But he speaks anyway._

_“I don’t want them to hate me,” he whispers._

_Emrys’s eyes narrow at that, “Hate you?”_

_Hiran flinches, his eyes closing as he turns his face away. If Emrys sees his face, he’ll see how much it hurts and, consequently, he’ll want to know why. Hiran doesn’t know why his family said he would do such terrible things. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t want Emrys to know. He doesn’t want to know himself._

_“Hiran…”_

_He almost doesn’t respond to that name. It is not his true name, which he has come to associate with the venom with which the Fair Folk spoke it, but the one given to him by Ashima on his first night in the palace. He likes it better. She says it with a sort of warmth that makes him feel loved, and because of why she gave it to him. When she had asked him if he would tell her his name, he had shaken his head, but had done nothing when she offered him a new one._

_“It means ‘gold’,” she had told him as she had pulled the dry shirt over his head._

_His hands had reached up to the horns protruding from his hair, a silent question in the gesture, and she had shaken her head._

_“It isn’t about how you look,” she had answered, tilting his face gently towards hers with a finger beneath his chin. “I saw you push Emrys out of the way when Eldis aimed to kill him. You put yourself in danger to protect him, and so revealed what your heart and soul are made of.”_

Gold…

_“Hiran, please look at me.”_

_Hiran does what Emrys asks and meets his eyes. They almost seem to change color with his moods, Hiran thinks. Oftentimes they look to be green. Sometimes they are grey. Other days, they are blue like the clear Oberon skies. And then, when he’s arguing with the higher ups, his eyes seem to be entirely colorless and inhuman. But now they are so vivid a blue-green that they look like the sea during a storm._

_“You can tell me anything,” Emrys says slowly. “You know that.”_

_“Yes, Emrys.”_

_The warlock is silent for a second, but then his lips tug slowly into a smile and he good-naturedly ruffles Hiran’s already messy hair. But there is something in his smile that puts Hiran off. It’s as though it’s not entirely genuine, a lie mixed-up with and hidden by a little bit of the truth, and he gets the sense that Emrys is hiding something from him. But he returns the smile anyway. He likes Emrys, regardless of whether or not he’s keeping secrets. After all, if he is allowed his own secrets, shouldn’t he give Emrys the same right?_

_“No one will hate you here,” Emrys tells him, his hand falling from Hiran’s hair to land on his shoulder. “We are all of mixed blood here, yours is simply a little different. But, if anyone does give you any trouble, don’t hesitate to come to me. This is your home now.”_

_“Thank you, Emrys,” Hiran all but whispers._

_Hiran’s eyes flick towards the door and back to Emrys, unsure of whether he is allowed to leave yet or not. Emrys pats him on the back with a nod. He relaxes at the dismissal, walking briskly towards his escape from Emrys’s scrutiny, but finds himself hesitating as he hears the warlock speaking once more._

_“Just one moment, Hiran.”_

_Hiran turns apprehensively, hoping that Emrys hasn’t somehow found out the truth anyway. But Emrys only opens one of the drawers in his desk. He waves his hand over the contents, his eyes flashing gold at the use of magic, and pulls something out. Without so much as a beat in between, he tosses the something towards Hiran. Despite his usual grace, he fumbles with it as it hits his fingers._

_Finally certain that he won’t drop the object, he takes a better look at it. It’s a dragon, or rather a dragon carved from what looks like birch, and Hiran turns it over in his hands. It looks fairly old, as there are small indentions in places where it might have smacked against a hard surface and the edges have been worn soft from being handled often. But it has been loved dearly, that much Hiran can sense from it, and he wonders why Emrys would give him what is obviously something very dear to him._

_“For the nightmares,” Emrys explains, as though he could read Hiran’s mind._

_Hiran looks back down at the carved dragon, running his thumb carefully over the curve of its wings, “It’s beautiful.”_

_“It was a gift from my father.”_

_Hiran glances up with wide eyes, a protest on the tip of his tongue, but Emrys holds up a hand to stop him._

_“I want you to have it,” he says. “Besides, I would rather you put it to good use than for it to simply collect dust in my care.”_

_Hiran looked from Emrys to the dragon and back, his hands wrapping around it protectively as he realized the importance of it, “Thank you, Emrys. I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”_

_And there is that smile again, that same too sweet smile that seems to be hiding something. Hiran’s own smile nearly disappears at the sight of it. He says nothing, as he doesn’t want to appear ungrateful, and leaves the room without another word. Part of him wonders what it is that Emrys is keeping from him. The rest of him knows he wouldn’t want to find out._

♕ ♕ ♕

             “Are you out of your mind?”

            Hiran rolls his eyes as George hisses the words at him, but continues banging on the door of the lieutenant’s quarters. Both Santiago and George are helping hold Arthur upright, as he seems to have been revived with less than adequate strength, and are unable to truly stop him without dropping the blonde.

            “And what would you have us do?” he snaps. “We just pulled the Once and Future King out of the Thames. That kind of thing isn’t something you wait to discuss over breakfast, now is it?”

            “It _is_ a bit early,” Santiago points out.

            Hiran bites back a groan. It’s obvious that Santiago’s trying very hard not to pick sides, but also trying to keep them from getting into trouble for being out and about at two in the morning.

            Before he can reply, the door swings open to reveal a very pissed off Captain Sands. Hiran can just barely hear Santiago mutter something very colorful beneath his breath. _That’s not good_ , Hiran thinks as he meets Sands’ glare. Santiago only swears when things are really bad. He takes a second to glance around, getting a better look at their surroundings, and realizes that they aren't actually in the hall leading to the lieutenant's quarters.

            “Are you out of your mind, Suresh?”

            Hiran blinks at the shout, but answers, “More so than I thought, apparently.”

            “What are you doing waking me up at this time of night?” Sands all but spits, his eyes suddenly catching sight of Arthur behind him. “Who the hell is that?”

            Hiran spares Arthur a glance before waving his hand dismissively, “That’s Arthur Pendragon. Now, I really need to get to-”

            “Arthur Pendragon?” Sands scoffs, giving the king a once-over. “The Once and Future King?”

            “No, the steward of the aeroplane,” Hiran says, doing his best not to roll his eyes. “Of course, the Once and Future King! Do you honestly believe I would bring a random man into the palace and immediately go to _your_ door? If I was going to bring someone for a night, you wouldn’t know. Believe you me. I’ve done it before.”

            “Hiran,” Santiago hisses in warning.

            George gives Hiran a sharp kick, taking as much of a step forward as he can while helping to hold the king up, “We’re sorry to have bothered you, Captain. We’ll be on our way now.”

            Even with one arm wrapped around Arthur’s back, George manages to grab Hiran’s arm and tug him towards the corridor. But Sands is quick to stop them, his hand landing on Arthur’s shoulder, and is about to say something. The words never come out. Before they can do anything, Arthur has ripped himself away from George and Santiago. His elbow angles upward as he slams his metal-plated arm into Sands’ face.

            The captain reels back, his hand over his possibly broken nose, and lets out a string of obscenities. George and Santiago rush to catch Arthur as his strength seems to fall away and he nearly pitches forward. Hiran barely has time to register the exhaustion and irritation in the king’s face before his eyes catch Sands moving again, his now bloody hand reaching for the dagger at his waist.

            Not bothering to hold himself back now, the way he always does in practice, Hiran moves around the three in a blur. His hand grips the blade that’s threatening to come down on Arthur, a grimace tugging at his lips as the steel cuts into his palm. It only takes half of his attention to shout a telepathic call for Lieutenant Michelson. The rest is currently using magic to keep Sands’ dagger from cutting anything important in his hand.

            “I don’t give a damn whether you like me or not,” he snarls, his eyes inches from Sands’. “This isn’t about either of us or your petty hatred. Fate has deemed it a fit time to bring back the man Emrys has waited centuries for, and I’ll be damned before I let you send him back to Avalon before they even see each other.”

            Hiran’s lips curled as he spoke, his human façade falling just enough for his sharp canines to show through. It had been meant as a silent warning and, judging by the way Sands’ eyes widened at the sight, Hiran knows it’s working. He can even feel the pressure behind the dagger easing up.

            He can’t explain why he had felt the need to throw himself in front of a blade for Arthur. It’s just something he knows, a deeply ingrained instinct that feels as natural as his magic. He rationalizes it as knowing how much Arthur means to Emrys, to what he means for Albion now that he’s back, because he doesn’t believe in anything prompted by first sight. Unless it has to do with lust or greed. _Neither of which are the case_ , he thinks as of the sight of the still fairly waterlogged king.

            The sound of footsteps echoing down the hall behind him catches Hiran’s attention, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Sands, even when the captain drops his blade. George and Santiago shift on their feet, obviously trying to stand a little taller with the lieutenant coming.

            “What is the meaning of this?”

            Michelson’s voice is as soft as ever, but there is a hint of something else that Hiran can’t recognize. He turns to face the lieutenant, barely noticing how Michelson is only wearing loose trousers given the hour, and sees how the man is looking at Arthur with a thoughtful frown. He meets Hiran’s eyes very slowly.

            “Who is this?”

            “Three guesses,” Hiran jokes, but the weariness beginning to hit him takes half of the humor from his voice. “And, no, he’s not a nymph.”

            Michelson gives him an expression that he can only describe as deadpan, his lips pressed into a thin line the way that he always does when Hiran’s rambling is unwarranted. Santiago clears his throat to get their attention.

           “Hiran pulled him from the Thames,” Santiago says, sounding much more sincere than Hiran had.

            “I am Arthur Pendragon,” Arthur says, trying and failing to stand up a little straighter. “Son of Uther and King of Camelot.”

            Michelson raises an eyebrow at the blonde, looking from the king to Hiran, George, and Santiago. There is a calculating look to his eyes, as if he’s working out what to do, before he closes his eyes and sighs deeply.

            “This is not the time to be having this sort of discussion,” the lieutenant mutters under his breath, causing even Hiran to strain to hear him. “Take…the king somewhere he can rest and return to your chambers. We’ll discuss this at a reasonable hour.”

            The three nod, and Hiran hears the shuffling of Sands’ feet as he returns to his rooms, muttering darkly as he does. But his attention is pulled away when Michelson speaks once more.

            “And, Hiran, you might want to get that looked at,” the lieutenant says, nodding towards Hiran’s hand.

            Hiran looks down at his hand. It is clenched by his side, the pain barely registering with everything else he’s thinking about, but there is still blood running down his skin and dripping onto the floor. He clasps it in his free hand as he watches Michelson go, murmuring a quick spell to heal the cut across his palm.

            He contemplates leaving the blood on the floor for a minute. After all, there are servants who will clean it up without so much as a thought. But then he thinks better of it, knowing that blood can be used for numerous spells and the blood of a cambion for even more, and he clears it with a wave of his hand. It floats between his fingertips like smoke before he closes his hand around it and it disappears.

            “Where are we going to put him?” George says loudly, catching everyone’s attention.

            “He can’t go into the barracks,” Santiago pointed out. “He’ll raise too many questions.”

            “I am right here,” Arthur mumbles halfheartedly.

            Speaking right over the king, George says, “But he can’t go into one of the Guards’ chambers. There’s no extra space in any of them.”

            “There’s a spare room in Ashima’s quarters.”

            Both Santiago and George glance at Hiran in surprise as he suggests it. Though they’re technically Hiran’s chambers now, he never has referred to them as his own. They were the rooms he shared with Ashima, decorated entirely to her tastes, and they have remained mostly the same since her death. They all know the only spare room in them is Ashima’s old bedroom.

            “Are you sure?” Santiago asks. “We can figure something else out if-”

            “I’m sure,” Hiran tells him, motioning for them to bring Arthur closer. “You two should go get some rest. I’ll take him up.”

            George and Santiago exchange another silent glance, but Hiran can tell they aren’t discussing anything telepathically. They shift Arthur’s weight to Hiran, and he notices the king is silently watching them carefully, but he doesn’t say anything as they walk off towards the barracks. He feels Arthur’s eyes on him and meets the king’s gaze evenly. From this close, he realizes they’re a pretty shade of cornflower blue with slightly darker centers.

             “Come on then, your highness,” Hiran says, shuffling them around to face the right direction. “Looks as though you’re bunking with me.”

              He thinks about walking all the way to Ashima’s quarters, but it’s an awfully long way and Hiran’s weariness is catching up with him. He hisses an incantation, noting how Arthur seems to grow uncomfortable at the open display of magic, but the king cannot protest as they are whisked away through spacetime. Their landing is a little harder than Hiran would like as the exhaustion after using a significant amount of magic rushes through him. Still, he considers it a success that they didn’t keel over entirely.

              “You’re a sorcerer,” he hears Arthur say quietly.

              “Nope,” Hiran replies, fumbling for the key in his pocket. “Sorcerers are humans who have genetic anomalies which allow them to practice magic. I was born with magic ingrained in my very soul, giving me a bit of an advantage. But I can understand how that may be confusing.”

              The lock pulls back with a soft _click_ , and Hiran pushes the door open. The sitting room is the first thing that can be seen from the door, the center taken up by a plush red couch and a few matching chairs surrounding a low coffee table, and the fire roars to life as they walk over the threshold.

              “Looks like a prince’s quarters,” Arthur mumbles as Hiran half drags them across the room.

              “It might have been once,” Hiran replies. “Never really paid attention to the history of this place.”

              Opening the door to Ashima’s private bedroom takes a lot of maneuvering, with Arthur getting jostled a bit as Hiran pulls the door open. He grimaces as he notices the layer of dust covering everything. Hiran hasn’t been in her room since she died, unable to clear it of her things, much less clean them up. She would likely smack him upside the back of the head if she could see it now. Of all the things she taught him, cleanliness was one she had stressed often. Particularly given that the energy imbued into the castle from years of its inhabitants using magic tends to excite (and sometimes throw things around) when he stays in any one place for more than two minutes.

            Pressing his index and middle fingers together, he brings his fingers to his lips and blows. Dust flies everywhere, the exact opposite of what Hiran had wanted, and he quickly lets Arthur down onto the bed so he can open the window. The dust goes flying out into the night air with a lazy flick of his wrist.

          “Sorry,” Hiran says as he closes the window, glancing at Arthur. “Magic has been used in this palace for so long, it has seeped into the very walls, and sometimes spells will go wrong. Especially when one is drunk or tired.” – he pauses, his lips pulling into a grin – “Or drunk _and_ tired.”

           “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t…do that.”

           Hiran frowns, “What? Magic?”

           Arthur nods, his half-lidded eyes more discerning than they should be at the given hour, particularly after everything they've done.

           “With all due respect, your highness, didn’t you spend years with Emr-Merlin at your side?”

           “I never knew he was a sorcerer, not until after Camlann.”

           Hiran watches the king as his words trail off, his eyes focusing on some point on the floor. If he didn’t know better, he would say that he could hear the faintest hint of resentment in Arthur’s voice, but he knows better than to point it out. Emrys had always spoken fondly of his times with Arthur, when Hiran had been able to get him to speak of them at all. It seemed now that maybe not everything had been as pleasant as Emrys had said.

           “I’ll get you a towel, shall I?” Hiran says, inching towards the door. “Do you need help getting out of that?”

           He gestures towards the whole of what Arthur’s wearing, wondering at how the ancient armor survived the journey into Avalon and back. Arthur looks up at him wearily.

            “I would appreciate the help.”

            Hiran nods before walking out of Ashima’s room. He hesitates outside the door, wondering what they will do with Arthur in the morning. Emrys would have to come back at last. Hiran scoffs at the thought, wondering if they will even be able to locate him within a reasonable amount of time. After all, he knows that when Emrys doesn’t want to be found, they can do nothing except wait until he comes back of his own accord.

♕ ♕ ♕

             Pulling her hair loose from the scarf she has tied around it, Viviane looks down at Merlin’s prone body on the floor of her tent. She shakes her head at the sight, as she had thought debilitating the so-called greatest sorcerer would have been more of a challenge, and pulls the vial from the edge of the table. The solution within is glowing vermillion now, the spell she had cast earlier taking full effect. She had known from the moment she had woken up that morning that she would need to be prepared.

            Visions of the future are one of the many gifts she has retained from her past life. It had taken years for her to remember, years of seeing a haunted-looking woman in the mirror, of thinking she was going mad from the strange dreams that felt so real. Her parents had been pushed to take her to a healer, but they could not have known that it was all she needed to remember. But she doesn’t think of herself as Morgana. That woman, though a part of her, had been too consumed by hatred to think clearly. She would know better this time.

            She doesn’t entirely think of herself as Viviane, the name her parents had given her in this life, either. She prefers the name her father called her, her true name that only Druids and the Fair Folk can know. _Rhiannon_. A knight of the Seelie Court had told her it meant ‘great queen’. _Such a lovely thought_ , she had mused at the time. She sees it as a promise from fate.

            The sound of her name being called pulls her from her thoughts. Slipping the vial of Merlin’s blood into a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt, she waves her hand through the smoke of her incense, uttering an incantation beneath her breath. The smoke swirls in air to form a silhouette of a face. Though she cannot see his face, she knows it is her informant from the London palace.

            “My lady,” he greets, his voice just loud enough for her to hear. “I hope I am not disturbing you.”

            She smiles at his usual courtesy, “Of course not.”

            “I have important news to-” he stops suddenly, the silhouette tilting to look down at the crumpled figure on the floor. “Who is that? If you don’t mind my asking, of course.”

            “That, my friend, is the true form of the great Emrys,” she tells him, not bothering to hide the pride in her voice.

            “Is he dead?”

            “No,” she says, the word tasting like venom on her tongue. “Though Courage and Strength rise and fall like the tides, Magic cannot be wiped out. It is an intrinsic part of this world. He is merely asleep, trapped in a dream world within his own mind.”

            Her informant is quiet, giving only a slight hum of interest before he says, “I thought he would look more…well, more.”

            “You said you had news?”

            The smoke silhouette seems to start at that, turning to face her once more, “Yes. My apologies. Your premonition has come upon us quicker than we had expected.”

            That stops her satisfaction with her accomplishments in a heartbeat, “What?”

            “Arthur Pendragon was brought to the palace this night.”

            The part of her that is still deeply rooted in her past screams in rage, making her blood boil at the thought of the arrogant king, but the rest of her smothers that thought. If Courage has returned so soon, then she must tread with caution. She may be able to see the future but not everything is clear in her visions. She must think carefully about what this means.

            “Are you certain it was Arthur?”

            It might seem silly to her informant, but she has to be absolutely assured that it really is Arthur. After all, it may have been a mistake, and there is no use jumping to conclusions without guarantees.

            The silhouette nods, “I saw him with my own eyes. He was pulled out of the Thames by the boy – the one Emrys favored. Hiran Suresh.”

            Viviane’s eyes narrow at that, “The cambion?”

            “Yes,” the silhouette says, giving another nod. “He was with two others, boys in training to be Royal Guard.”

            “Their names?”

            “Cruz and Mitchell.”

            Their names don’t particularly mean anything to her. She has yet to figure out if any of them are actually of importance in the grand scheme of things, but she likes to know about them just in case. It allows her to judge their character from afar, to seek out potential allies in the heart of Merlin’s precious Guard, and it doesn’t hurt to keep track of the people who come and go in the palace.

            “What do they intend to do with him?” she asks. “With Arthur?”

            The silhouette bobs slightly, a gesture that had taken her a long time to recognize as a shrug in the past, “That has yet to be determined. He was brought in at a fairly early hour and it was decided that they would wait until after the dawn.”

            “Where is he now?”

            Her informant grimaces, or grimaces as much as he can given that he is speaking to her through smoke, and says, “He is in Suresh’s chambers.”

            She swears under her breath and, if her informant hears her, he says nothing about it. If Arthur is in Hiran’s chambers, she knows he is well protected. Though not a Guard, her informant has told her of how he acts, how he works twice as hard for half of the recognition. She knows how much he believes in what the Guard stands for. If it comes down to it, she knows he will defend Arthur.

            But, if her visions are correct, she could also find him standing at her side when the time comes for her to make the final move. She will use her informant to push him towards resentment. After all, there is only so far one can surround oneself with prejudice before one snaps. She will bide her time and, in the end, he will come to her.

            “Is there anything you would have me do, my Lady?”

            She shakes her head, “Leave things as they are, for now. Nothing changes until I know how they will react to this new piece on the board.”

            “Yes, my Lady,” her informant says, but he does not end the spell.

            The smoke turns back to Merlin, its head cocking to the side like a confused dog. Viviane gets the sense that he wants to ask a question, one that could potentially anger her, and is holding his tongue. She taps her nails against the table’s surface as she waits. When he doesn’t say anything, she clears her throat.

            “If you have something you wish to say, speak and be done with it.”

            “What do you intend to do with Emrys?”

            She smiles at that, knowing that it will make no difference if she divulges the answer, “He has changed in the centuries since Morgana knew him. Waiting for so long for his precious Arthur, not receiving so much as a sign of his return, has made him more callous. Not only did he watch the failure of his fate, but the death of everyone he ever deemed to call a friend. He blames himself for his shortcomings. If there is anyone who can torment him after all he has seen, it is himself.”

            There is something unreadable in the silence that follows. She suddenly wishes she had a more stable form of communication, something which would allow her to gauge what her informant is thinking.

            “Is that not cruel?”

            Viviane laughs, “Do not tell me you’ve grown soft – that you care for him in any way.”

            When he doesn’t answer, she takes it upon herself to continue.

            “No, my friend. What is cruel is pretending to be a friend, letting someone give you their trust, and then betraying them. What I am doing is a kindness compared to what he did to me.”


	3. In Which the Storm Approaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Enclave gathers to discuss the return of the Once and Future King, Merlin awakes to find himself trapped in an inescapable prison, and an anarchist group finds they must make a change of plans.

**Chapter Three**

**In Which the Storm Approaches**

 

Hiran is aware of someone far too close to him even before he wakes up completely. His sleep-addled mind immediately goes back to Annwn and Arawn's disciples, fear rising in him like bile in his throat. A hand closes on his shoulder, too gentle to be any of Arawn's men, but his mind's already in overdrive. He pulls the dagger he keeps under his pillow and uses his weight to push over the person touching him, pressing the blade to their throat.

Warm grey eyes go wide beneath him as his human façade drops entirely. It takes him a second to recognize the young man beneath him, a second in which he thanked the Triple Goddess for his hesitation. He was certain he looked a far sight from reassuring. His skin, while still dark, has taken on a sheen like burnished copper and he can feel his teeth sharp against his tongue.

"Ewan?" Hiran whispers. "What in the name of the Goddess are you doing?"

Ewan, who has been in the palace since he was a boy, seems to give the best approximation of a sheepish smile as he can, given the circumstances.

"Sorry, sorry," Ewan mutters, stumbling over the words. "I was – a sound – man – Ashima's room...I thought you should know."

Hiran pulls off the boy, dropping the dagger on the mattress before pushing his hair back from his face with a deep breath. A few more long breaths and he's awake enough to pull the human façade back into place. Ewan slowly gets to his knees, apparently put at ease by the act, and watches Hiran carefully before he speaks again.

"I came in to wake you, as you weren't down with the other Guard, and I heard a noise coming from Ashima's bedroom. And I know how you never go in there, so I thought I'd find out what it is," Ewan whispers, looking as though he's committed a crime simply by glancing in Ashima's room. "There's a man sleeping in her bed!"

Hiran nearly snorts at the scandalized tone in the boy's voice, "Of course there is. I told him he could stay."

Ewan's eyes widen, "You made him sleep in the other room? Isn't that a bit...wouldn't it have been kinder to ask him to leave altogether?"

"What?" Hiran asks, trying to piece together what the boy means until he sees the blush on his cheeks. "I didn't sleep with him!"

Ewan merely shrugs, raising his hands in defeat, "To each their own."

Hiran doesn't bother to dignify that with an answer, instead choosing to fall back on his mattress and press the heels of his hands into his eyes with a groan. It's only when he drops his hands, looking at his room upside down, that he notices the clock and what time it is. He's late to breakfast.

"Fuck!"

He launches himself off the bed, throwing the doors to his closet open and tugging out a random shirt and pair of jeans. Apparently spurred on by the sudden burst of action, Ewan grabs the boots beside the doorway, holding them out for Hiran the second he stops hopping around trying to pull on his jeans.

"So who is he?" Ewan asks. "The man in Ashima's room."

Hiran doesn't bother to sit down as he pulls his boots on and, as his grounded foot hits something hard on the floor, he trips backwards. He doesn't get up from his position on the mattress as he finishes pulling up his boots. If gravity and his messy room are determined to make him sit down, he's not going to get up again. Makes it easier to put on his boots, anyway.

"He's uh...well, he's er," Hiran pauses just long enough to carefully look over Ewan. "You can't tell this to anyone else, do you understand?"

Ewan nods fervently, holding open the door as Hiran approaches.

"He's the Once and Future King."

"What?" the boy all but yells. "Arthur Pendragon – the king of Camelot – is in that bedroom?"

"Yes, now stop shouting."

"But – but, how?"

Hiran pushes the doors to the suite open, letting Ewan through before digging in his pocket for the key. He curses under his breath as he realizes it's not there. He could run back in and grab it, but that would take even more time and he's already late, so he splayes his fingers against the door handle. The lock to clicks shut at the motion.

"I'll tell you later," Hiran promises. "I've got to bring up breakfast for Pendragon, and we both know what happens if you're late to meals. Besides, I believe you have chores to get to."

Ewan scowls as he walks in the opposite direction, turning just long enough to point his finger at Hiran and declare, "Fine. But I will be coming back for the whole story. And, if you don't tell me everything, there will be serious consequences."

Hiran resists the urge to roll his eyes as he rushes down the hall. He's known Ewan since he was brought to the palace, and knows very well that the only thing the boy can do with a knife is cut vegetables. He often tries to put on a brave face, often leaving Hiran and his fellow servants to pull him out of trouble, but the boy couldn't pick up a broadsword. Serious consequences usually means three uninterrupted hours of chatter and nagging for answers. Hiran's not sure whether or not that's actually less dire than a sword.

Weaving his way around the servants getting to their early morning errands, he rushes towards the dining hall. It's a large room, perhaps similar in size to the ballroom they'd converted into a training room, and is decorated only with table and chairs. The tables on the left half of the hall are covered in plates and saucers of eggs, sausages, bacon, potatoes, toast, mushrooms, and countless mugs for tea or coffee. However, as he's late by an hour, most of the plates have been picked clean by the numerous Guard members seated at the tables on the right.

He strides over to the tables of food, another string of curses falling from his tongue as he wonders how he's supposed to feed two people with the scraps and crumbs left on the silver serving dishes. Pulling two plates out of the dwindling pile, he picks through what's left in attempt to find something vaguely presentable for a king. He pauses halfway through spooning a few mushrooms onto the plates. What even constitutes as an acceptable breakfast for a king?

A hand suddenly reaches over and plucks a mushroom of the spoon in his hand and Hiran looks up just in time to see Jem pop it into his mouth.

"Slept in, Suresh?" he says with a grin, the gesture all teeth and no humor. "We noticed you hadn't come in yet, thought you might be eating breakfast elsewhere, so we didn't think to save you any. Hope you don't mind."

Hiran smiles back, but says nothing in response. There's no sincerity in Jem's voice and, from the spiteful glint in his eyes, he knows the ginger's just trying to get a rise out of him. Better to just ignore him than start a fight and get into trouble.

"What was it that kept you up? Not bringing any late night guests in, I would hope."

Gritting his teeth, he moves over to the other plates and focuses on minute details to keep from getting angry. He wonders how a king would like his eggs. Did they scramble eggs in Camelot?

"No need to be ashamed," Jem says, leaning against the table in an almost lazy manner. "We all know how cambion are. It's in your nature to be easy."

The serving spoon in Hiran's hand makes an odd groaning sound as it bends in his grip. He opens his mouth, about to say something, when someone barrels into Jem hard enough to knock him off the table. Halima, her long curls pulled up in a tight bun and two plates in her hands, turns around to look down at where Jem had fallen. A shocked expression crosses her face and she puts the plates down where she can on the table to help him up.

"Jem, I didn't see you there," she tells him. "Are you alright?"

There's no apology in her words, much to Hiran's satisfaction, and he's known her long enough to recognize the dismissal in her tone. Jem apparently does, as well.

"Fine," he snaps, standing up without her help and stalking off towards the tables.

Hiran watches him go before turning to Halima, "You didn't have to do that, you know."

"Thought I might or you would've put that spoon somewhere unpleasant," she says with a shrug, picking the plates back up. "Santiago and I saved these for you."

He looks from his mostly empty plates to the full ones in her hands. She has a little bit of everything on them, piled high and yet still not enough to touch the edge. His mouth opens and shuts as he puts his plates down, trying and failing to think of any words that fully explain how grateful he is. In the end, he settles on a grin.

"Halima, you're an angel."

"What? Because of these?" she asks, a teasing edge to her voice. "You're easily pleased. Besides, I wouldn't have known you needed two if Santiago hadn't told me what happened last night. He's the one who you should thank."

Hiran takes the plates, his grin growing larger, "Well, then. I'll have to do that." – he leans forward and quickly presses a kiss against her cheek – "Give that to him for me, will you?"

She blushes at his words, whispering in response, "You could get us into trouble."

"Nonsense," he tells her. "I'm not a Guard, remember? If anyone gives you trouble, just tell them that you were relaying my message. And, if you don't get caught with Santiago, it's not as though you can get in trouble for kissing me. Although, Santiago might give me an earful."

"Go," she laughs, shooing him away with a hand.

"As you wish, milady," he announces, giving the most dramatic bow he can manage.

Though Halima turns away, he can hear her laughter and can't help but smile in return. He doesn't run into any trouble as he leaves the dining hall. Then again, Halima has a bit of a reputation and most know not to interfere once she has said something on the matter. He can still feel eyes on him, no doubt the other Guards are wondering not only why he's leaving the hall, but why he's leaving with two plates instead of one.

It takes a bit more maneuvering to weave through the servants and not drop anything now that he's carrying two plates filled to the brims with food. But he manages, even nodding in greeting to the few that he knows by name. He could use magic to take himself back up to Ashima's rooms, which would make it easier to hold on to everything and not crash into someone, but it would also take more energy than he has at the moment. And using magic for transportation when he's not quite strong enough tends to land him in awkward places. He had learned that the hard way, particularly when he landed in a stall in the women's toilets.

Unlocking and opening the door with magic, however, takes very little effort. He kicks it shut behind him and makes his way across the sitting room. If Arthur is up, he hasn't left the bedroom. Nothing is out of place. Just in case, Hiran knocks on the door as best he can with his foot.

"Your majesty?" he calls, still uncertain if that title is proper enough for a king brought back from the dead. "May I come in?"

Arthur opens the door in seconds, wearing nothing except the pants of the pajamas Hiran had given him in the early hours of the morning. For a second Hiran's focus is on why the king hadn't worn the whole set, although he's not fool enough to pass up a chance to subtly admire the view, until he notices something and frowns. There's a long, ugly scar resting just beneath Arthur's ribcage on his left side. From the way that it's healed, which doesn't make any sense as to why the scar would look decades old given that Arthur looks to be only twenty-some odd years, it looks as though the blade would have grazed a few ribs on the way up.

Wonder where that came from, he thinks to himself.

Remembering his manners, he meets Arthur's eyes, "Good morning! I brought breakfast. Want to come join me on the couch?"

Arthur gives him something that looks like a smile trying to be a frown, "You have no idea how to address royalty, do you?"

Hiran fights his own smile, admiring the irony that the world has allowed him in this very moment, "I'm afraid not. We don't see a lot of royalty around here."

He moves to the side to let Arthur walk around him, watching as the king looks around the room. Hiran had gotten the feeling that he had taken a glance when he had been dragged in that morning but, as both had been pretty tired, he guessed it hadn't been a thorough examination of the room.

"No table?"

Hiran shrugs as he sets the plates down on the coffee table and sits down on the leftmost side of the couch, "We're supposed to eat down in the dining hall, but I'm pretty sure Lieutenant Michelson wouldn't appreciate the outburst I would cause if I brought the Once and Future King down to breakfast."

"Why do you all keep calling me that?"

"It's one of your titles," Hiran says, trying to recall what little he can from his history lessons. "The Great Dragon called you by that name when he shared the prophecy with Emry- with Merlin."

Apparently deciding he doesn't want to eat breakfast standing up, Arthur sits down on the far side of the couch, but he doesn't stop looking at Hiran as he says, "That's the second time you've called Merlin by a different name."

"How do you not know this?" Hiran asks, putting his fork down. "You lived the stories we've been told of as children. How do you not know Emrys is Merlin's true name?"

"I only learned of Merlin's magic in my last days," Arthur says quietly, his eyes unfocused as he pushes a mushroom around with his fork. "And those...those I can't remember all that well."

Hiran goes quiet as he watches the blonde. He can't begin to imagine what Arthur is going through, not only dying once, but being brought back in a time so different from his own without any form of warning.

"May I ask you a question?"

Arthur seems to start at Hiran's words, as though he had forgotten where he was. But he nods the second he's processed the question.

"Do you remember anything about Avalon?"

His answer is quick, no trace of uncertainty in his expression, "No."

Hiran nods, understanding that Arthur likely doesn't want to talk about his death. Not that he can find it in himself to blame Arthur, especially as, if he were in the king's shoes, he wouldn't want to linger over his death either. So he puts down his fork and takes a deep breath as he decides to do something potentially compromising for him.

"You know what?" he says quickly, not allowing himself a minute to think over the possible repercussions. "Over the next few days, if not weeks, you and your past are going to be verbally picked apart. Since there's nothing I can do to stop that, why don't I even the playing field? Ask me anything - personal or not - and I'll answer as truthfully as I can."

Arthur looks up sharply, his blue-grey eyes wide. Horan just gives a nonchalant shrug at the scrutiny in his gaze.

"You're not human, are you?"

Hiran deflates the second Arthur says it. He had expected many questions, but he hadn't expected that specific one so quickly. But, he supposes, it is one of the easier ones to answer.

"I am, I'm just not entirely human," he explains. "My father was an incubus - a type of Faerie gifted in magic regarding love and attraction - but my mother was human."

"I've heard stories of the incubi," Arthur says slowly, his eyes cast downward as if he pities Hiran. "Your mother told you of her assault?"

Hiran wrinkles his nose in disgust, an irritated growl escaping his throat before he can stop it, and the change visibly rattles Arthur. It's not as though he's not used to the prejudice seen towards his people. On the contrary, he has learned to bite his tongue when it is displayed. He does, however, take great offense to the idea that his kind rape those who catch their fancy.

"My father never laid a hand against my mother that wasn't wanted," Hiran snaps. "As if we would even need to stoop to such levels for something so trivial as a quick shag."

Arthur flinches, but doesn't move. Instead, he actually looks ashamed, and his next words do calm Hiran to some extent.

"I'm sorry. Those were the tales told of your people in my days. I take it your mother lived with your father?"

Hiran sits back, thinking over his memories of his childhood as he calms down. It isn't often that he thinks of the days when his parents had been alive. The memories are often too much, too painful in their beauty, for him to stomach. But he allows himself to slip into them just enough to remember them with clarity.

"She did," he admits, giving a soft laugh. "It's customary in my culture to take more than one romantic partner, but my father was an eccentric. He only ever was with my mother. So many of his friends asked why he would do so, why not choose another partner, or at least have a single partner among the Fair Folk. After all, we tend to be much more beautiful than humans. He never answered them. But he told me that he thought she was very beautiful, not in the way that Faeries are, but in a simple sort of beauty. Like the light of a star."

Even after so many years, Hiran can still see his parents as clear as he would were they still alive. His mother with her jet black hair pulled into intricate braids, her sharp brown eyes sparkling with amusement, and the delicate cupid's bow of her lips pulling into a smile. And then there was his father, his posture regal and proud, his hair threaded with gold beads and dark emeralds, the strong set of his jaw and stern expression belying his mischievous streak.

"Sounds as though they were nice," Arthur says wistfully. "As though you had a good life."

"It was once."

The words come out sharper than he had intended, sounding as bitter as they taste on his tongue, and he can't find it in himself to look up. Before Arthur can respond to that, a knock at the door makes both jump. Hiran gets up, pushing his plate further in on the table, and walks towards the door. Ewan is on the other side. The servant boy looks frazzled, even more so when he looks at the dark edge in Hiran's eyes. But Hiran takes a minute to calm down before he speaks.

"Done already?" he asks, forcing a smile he's long since learned to perfect. "That was quick."

"Actually, I was sent up here," Ewan says, shifting his weight back and forth. "The Enclave are waiting for you. The Captain sent me up here to get you."

Hiran drops his smile, "Fuck. When did they get here?"

"Last night, from what I've heard," Ewan replies with a shrug.

Hiran rushes back into the room, practically pulling the plate from Arthur's hands. He stacks his on top of it and hands them off to Ewan.

"Hey!" Arthur snaps, looking affronted, but not bothering to do anything in response, as Hiran hurriedly pulls him out the room.

"Hey nothing," Hiran retorts. "The Enclave is downstairs and we do not want to keep them waiting."

"The Enclave?"

"The captains of the Royal Guard from every chapter around the world," Hiran explains. "They only convene for something very important or very disastrous. I'm not sure yet which one they might see you as."

"Around the world?" Arthur asks, not bothering to resist when Hiran instinctively grabs his hand and half drags him down the hall faster.

Hiran laughs and, this time, it sounds genuinely amused, "Emrys has been looking for you for thousands of years. Do you really believe he would only set up the Guard in one country? He didn't want to leave anything to chance, especially something which was so important to him."

Arthur doesn't seem to have anything to say in regards to that, so Hiran focuses more on trying to find the most roundabout, ridiculously obscure path down to the Round Hall. He thinks that perhaps he should have gotten Arthur a disguise of some sort. A hat and sunglasses - that's how it's always done in the movies, and it always seems to work. But he had been in too much of a rush to get to the Enclave. He had heard enough about them from Merlin to know that they were not to be kept waiting, and so hadn't given much more thought to the matter than just getting to the hall. After all, the last thing he needs is to give the Enclave the sense that he was incompetent, as much of the Guard in London is already looking to get him kicked out.

As they turn one of the last corners, Hiran nearly barrels into someone else in the otherwise empty corridor. He digs the heels of his boots into the stone floors to keep from falling on top of the person, thanking the goddess for his strength, when he nearly loses his balance as Arthur slams into his back. Hiran takes a second to keep his balance before he looks down at the person he nearly trampled.

Alsoomse, another servant among the palace, meets his eyes the second he looks at her. Most others in the castle won't look her in the eye, too ashamed for staring at the burn scar that spans across the left side of her face. It's something that Hiran can almost identify with. Although not a particularly talkative person, Allie was another who had been kind to him regardless of his past.

"Sorry," he says quickly, pulling her up with one hand as he steps in front of Arthur.

"Racing off without looking where you're going is nothing new to you," she replies, her eyes glancing over his shoulder. "A little late to be sneaking your boyfriend out, isn't it?"

"Boyfriend?"

"You know me," Hiran practically shouts, desperately hoping his voice has covered Arthur's confused exclamation. "What's life without a little risk?"

She narrows her eyes at him, far too perceptive for her own good, but doesn't say anything for a second. Not wanting to push his luck, Hiran gives a shrug.

"Well, I'd best be going. Wouldn't want to get caught this far in the game. Sorry again, Allie!"

He doesn't give her a minute to reply as he drags Arthur after him once more. If he feels her gaze burning into the back of his head, he doesn't acknowledge it. He has more important things to worry about, specifically not getting metaphorically killed by the Enclave, than whether or not she worked out the truth. He can always get Ewan to persuade her to keep silent later, anyway.

♕ ♕ ♕

Merlin doesn't open his eyes when he comes to. A couple thousand years of experience has taught him to get even the faintest sense of his surroundings, just in case there is someone waiting for him to wake up. The air doesn't carry the same scent of salt and sand as it did before, the atmosphere drier than it had been on docks, and he can feel smooth stones beneath his fingertips. Where is he? Sometime while he was out, Rhiannon must have moved him.

The second he thinks of the name, he can feel the sparks of Old Magic running through his skin, setting his nerves alight. It's the same feeling he experiences when someone uses his true name, the name the world knows him by now. But true names are not given out lightly. They hold so much power, allowing the Fair Folk to see into the very soul of a person. So why would she give hers to him? The answer only takes him a second to realize. She doesn't want to hide from him.

His eyes snap open with that conclusion, realizing exactly who it is he had seen. Goddess above, why hadn't he recognized her eyes? Over a thousand years had passed, blinks of an eyes to him now, but how could he have looked into those cold eyes and not recognized one of his greatest mistakes? Morgana was back. Reincarnated or risen by spell, it didn't matter. The real question is who else back if she is.

The first thing he notices upon opening his eyes is that there is a bare ceiling high above him. He sits up, his eyes glancing quickly over everything around him, and he is astounded by what he sees. The room around him is large, empty of everything that could possibly be put into any kind of room. It's entirely comprised of white stone blocks.

He gets up slowly, hoping that maybe it's just an illusion that will fade, as he can feel the strong hum of magic throughout the entire place. It doesn't. He turns in place, glancing at the unadorned walls in search of a door or window. There are none.

"How did we get in?" he mumbles under his breath.

"Never thought I'd see the day when I grew so old, I began to talk to myself."

Merlin spins around, eyes desperately seeking the sound of his own voice. Standing across from where he had been looking, leaning against the wall in a blue tunic and red scarf, is himself. The doppelgänger watches him impassively, not bothering to move from where he leans against the wall. It takes all of Merlin's composer not to gape at him.

There's not a flaw in his recreation, no visible difference in his hair, clothing, or physical appearance. It's quite the feat of magic. If he were anywhere else, Merlin might take a few moments to admire the look-alike. But he's more concerned in getting out.

"How did we get here?"

The double shakes his head with a scoff, "You know the answer to that."

"Yes, I know Morgana put us here," Merlin snaps. "What I want to know is how."

The doppelgänger doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. He crosses his arms, angling his face and raising his eyebrows, and Merlin realizes just how condescending that expression looks on his face. How many times had he given Arthur that look?

"No wonder Arthur hated it," he says at the same time his counterpart says, "No wonder Arthur called me a clot-pole."

The silence that falls between them could practically be cut with a knife. The other him sighs, pushing off the wall and walking forward, only stopping when he stands before Merlin.

"Isn't it obvious?" the doppelgänger asks. "I thought it was bad enough when she trapped me in my own head, but know she's trapped me in my head with myself. She's knows me better than I thought."

"I don't see how this is so terrible," Merlin says. "Surely, if you are made like me, we can figure a way out of here."

"Goddess above! She locked me in my own head with my younger self," the double exclaims.

Merlin narrows his eyes, "Younger self?"

He nods, "So naively optimistic. It's painful to watch."

"You're the one wearing my old clothes."

"As are you," the double says, a bitter smile on his lips.

Merlin looks down to find that the his copy is right. He is somehow dressed in the same blue tunic, brown trousers, and red scarf as the version of himself not two feet away. But it must be just a trick. It has to be another of Morgana's mind games for him.

"I'm the real one here," he snaps. "You're just a copy, made to taunt me with my own bitterness."

The doppelgänger almost looks sad - no, not sad, he looks as though he pities Merlin, as he asks, "What makes you so certain that it's not the other way around?"

Merlin's jaw snaps shut at that, uncertainty creeping into his mind. He doesn't want to think of that, though, he wants to think of how to get out of this stone prison. The fact that Morgana went through the effort of tracking him and imprisoning him is enough to prove that she has foreseen Arthur's return. And Merlin has waited too long to let Arthur slip away now.

"Believe what you want," he says sharply, turning away from the double. "I'm going to get out of here."

He walks across the room to the wall, placing a hand against the stones. They're ice cold to the touch, and smoother than he's ever felt, but it feels as solid as a real wall. He pushes against it, but it stays exactly where it is. Long shot, anyway, he thinks as he takes a step back.

"What are you doing?" the other him asks.

Merlin extends his hand, allowing the static energy of magic to course through him. As he focuses on what he wants, he twists his wrist slowly, drawing his fingers into a fist. He splays his fingers suddenly with a shout.

"Ástríce!"

Chunks of rock go flying everywhere and Merlin raises his arms to shield his face from the pieces. There is a hole in the wall the size of a car now, much to his satisfaction, and he can see the stars in the night sky outside. He tentatively walks closer, glancing over the edge of the broken wall. The ground is too far to see. Deciding his magic will keep him from dying, he steps onto the ledge.

"It's not going to work," the doppelgänger calls from behind him.

Of course his double would say that. After all, Morgana would want him to give up hope. He looks over his shoulder at the false version of him, grinning as though to say 'watch me make it work', and he pushes himself off the ledge.

The air outside is colder than the stone was, and it nearly rips the breath from his lungs as he falls. He feels like laughing, even as the wind seems to want to tear him apart. The ground still isn't in view and he is surrounded by stars.

But...that's not right. How long has he been falling for? Merlin can't seem to tell, and he can no longer tell where the stone prison had been. He's no longer falling peacefully, the fear that he has made a terrible mistake setting in, and he begins to tumble through the emptiness. White mixes in with the dark navy and he collides with something hard.

Merlin gasps as his impact with the ground stuns him. It takes a minute to open his eyes, but he is greeted by the sight of the double looking down at him. Beyond his own messy black curls, causing a wave of disbelief to pass through him, is a ceiling of white stone.

"I told you it wouldn't work," the other him says, straightening up. "I tried that before you arrived."

Merlin follows the double's line of sight, his eyes meeting a solid wall where the hole had been. He practically feels himself deflate at the sight of it. But it's also then, when his mind is clearing, that the double's words truly sink in.

"Before?"

The other him nods and walks back towards the wall, "I tried to tell you that you're the figment of Morgana's imagination. There's no way out of here."

Merlin sits up, watching the other him - the real one? - as he leans against the wall again, "But Arthur-"

"We'll have to rely on the Guard to protect him," the other him says. "That is what they were formed for."

That catches Merlin's attention, "Do you think they'll take him to London?"

It's as though he's slapped his other self, the expression on the double's face shocked at his words.

"Hiran..."

"There is a chance," Merlin points out, "that he may turn out differently this time. We were kinder to him."

The double shakes his head, "The incubus said that he would fall into the same path as before, regardless of how we treated him."

Merlin feels his heart sink at that, but he still shakes his head, "I have faith in him. We must have had faith in him, or else we wouldn't have taken him in."

The doppelgänger looks away, the slump in his shoulders betraying the regret he's trying to hide.

"Right?" Merlin presses, hoping that he's jumping to conclusion. "Why else would we take him home?"

"You know what they say: keep your friends close..." the double says miserably.

Merlin gapes at the double, shocked that he would become so hopeless.

"When did we become so cold?" he asks quietly.

That's when the double meets his gaze, a hard edge in his hazel eyes, "When we came back from Arthur's funeral to find Gwaine's needed to be arranged. And then when Gaius died in his sleep that winter. And again when Gwen died two years after. When Leon fell in the battle to protect the last of Camelot's legacy, and a final time when Percival was taken by plague."

There's something so harsh in his words, so bitter with the world, as though he's come to hate the fate that was dealt to him. But there's also grief and loneliness and guilt. As though the other him blames himself for being unable to help them, for being forced to live on as they died.

"I have faith that Hiran will make the right decision," Merlin says, his tone almost defiant.

The double shakes his head, "He'll make the right choices at first. He'll trust Arthur and I, and even win over Arthur's trust, but it won't last. Arthur will hurt someone he loves, and Hiran will want revenge. Morgana will use that to her advantage and time will repeat itself."

"I don't believe you."

"It doesn't matter whether or not you believe me," he says. "Deep down, he will always be Mordred. No amount of faith will change that."

♕ ♕ ♕

Evelyn pulls her the hood of her coat further down over her head, not wanting anyone to recognize her, as she ducks through the doorway of The Hanging Tree. With the peace accords closing in, there have been more Guards wandering around the streets. And the last thing she needs is to be caught now. She rubs absentmindedly at the bracelet wrapped snugly around her right wrist, brushing across the rough surface of the amulet embedded into the silver. It's meant to give off a pulse of energy whenever she passes a Guard, alerting them of who she is and what she's done, and she doesn't need them following her.

The bracelet was locked onto her wrist when she was released from prison. Apparently, aiding and abetting those who stand up for the non-magical - Coms, or common people, as many of the magical peoples call them - is considered a crime. How was she to know that John would use her intel to bomb a sorcerer's school? But neither the police nor the Royal Guard had bothered to believe her, too hung up the fact that she was his fiancee. So now she was a marked terrorist, unable to go much of anywhere without someone recognizing her.

She hated it. Hated that they wouldn't listen to her, that they wouldn't forgive a mistake, that they would condemn her to the wrath of those around her who had experienced the backlash of her fiancé's actions. Maybe that was why she was so quick to turn to him. The Judge.

According to anyone of authority, he didn't exist. Just a scary story told to naughty and rambunctious children in order to get them to behave properly. But Evelyn has met him. She knows how real he is and just what that means for the people of London.

He had come to her the night she had come home from prison, waiting in her living room as though he could pass through the walls. There was no pressure put on her to join his ranks, which was a surprise given how skeptical she was, but she had given in within a week. Her first meeting with his men was a shock. There were so many who had suffered, who had lost a friend or a family member, because of the tyranny of a government which would only protect one group of its people.

It hadn't taken long for her to rise among the ranks. Her skill set was greatly needed, or so he had told her, and she had proven herself to be useful. Though it was never explicitly spoken of, she knows the others see her as his second in command. She is the one he goes to when he needs someone to hack into anything important or when he needs inside information.

And now she has something that will alter all of the plans they have made so meticulously.

The inside of The Hanging Tree is sparsely lit, the few faint bulbs casting the little hole in the wall of a restaurant like a chiaroscuro painting. The rustic tables are mostly empty at this hour. But it's neither the food nor the company she's come for. She walks past the few people seated at the tables, barely sparing them a glance, before stopping at the bar. A tall man with long dark hair pulled back stands behind the bar, turning around to face her the second he catches sight of her.

"Hall," Luke greets, his voice low and impassive. "What can I get you?"

"Something strong," she says, brushing back her long hair with a hand.

The gesture is a simple one, something that most would overlook without a second thought, but it means so much more to them. From where he stands, he can just make out the tattoo hidden beneath her hair. It's innocuous enough. It's of a glittering copper dragon, a sword protruding from its chest as it falls from mid-flight. A common enough tattoo, often used as an homage to the death of the Great Dragon, the sword meant to symbolize fate. Most do not react when they see it.

But to those who have pledged themselves to the Judge's cause know better. On just anyone, it could mean nothing. Inked onto the base of someone's neck, that means something different, something particular only to the Judge and his followers. Luke gives a nod and digs a key out of his pockets, dropping a single generic key into the palm of her hand.

She wraps her fingers around it, relishing the cold of the metal against her skin, "Thank you."

He gives only a nod in reply, going back to whatever he had been doing before, as she walks off down on of the back halls. Before the doors to the toilets, there's a door which is always locked. It's much the same color as the wood paneling on the walls, not even a frame to differentiate the two, and most simple walk by it without paying it much mind. But Evelyn unlocks it quickly with Luke's key and slips inside quietly.

The inside walls are made of rough bricks, some of them painted in a vain attempt to make them a little less of an eyesore, and she feels each one as she fumbles for the light switch. The lights flicker on with the slightest buzzing noise and Evelyn makes her way down the metal spiral staircase. The atmosphere gets warmer the further down she goes, heated by a couple units and the several dozen people who are within the underground bunker.

The stairs end at a long catwalk suspended above the main room of the place. Far below her feet, she can see handfuls of people crowding around tables of papers, laptops, and weaponry. All of them are too consumed in their work to notice as she makes her way across the walk. There is another staircase at the other end, leading down to the floor below, but Evelyn chooses to knock on the door before her instead.

It only takes a minute for the door to swing inward, the young man's face half-obscured in shadow from the hood of his coat. But Evelyn can tell who it is just from the way his lips tug into a smile at the sight of her.

"Good evening, Evelyn," he says, his voice just as smooth as it had been so many years ago. "Come in."

He slides easily to the side, allowing her to step into the room, and the door clicks shut behind them. Evelyn wastes no time in taking the empty seat before his desk, her fingertips clacking against the wooden arm as she waits for him to sit.

"I assume there's something I can do for you," he says slowly, sinking into the chair across from hers.

He pushes the hood away from his face, revealing world-weary eyes the color of green glass. Evelyn bites her lip, glancing down at the desk, but gives a sigh just to play it off as though her hesitation is just the news she has arrived with.

"I have word from our informants in the palace," she tells him, finally looking up to meet his gaze.

"Oh?"

"The Royal Guard have convened earlier than expected."

His eyes snap into focus at that, "Was the Summit date moved?"

She shakes her head, "From what I understand, sir, it hasn't been changed. But something more pressing has come up."

"More pressing," he echoes, his eyebrows rising in a silent question.

She goes silent, trying to gauge his mood in order to tell how he might react to the news. But, as always, his expression is impassive. It's almost impossible for her to ever guess at what is going on in his head. Even when he is angry, there is no betrayal of it in his eyes.

He reaches over suddenly, stilling her fingers with a hand placed lightly over hers. The touch startles her, and it takes all of her composure not to jump at the contact, even more so when he begins to trace small circles across her skin with his thumb.

"Evelyn, have I ever reacted negatively to anything you have had to tell me?"

She hesitates, uncertain as to where he is going with this, before she answers, "No, sir."

"Have I ever shown you anything but kindness since the moment I met you?"

"No, sir," she says again, her voice more adamant this time.

"Then should you have reason to doubt me?"

She gives a small smile, almost embarrassed by what he has pointed out, "No, sir."

He nods, pulling his hand back, "Good. So what is it that troubles you?"

"My informant claims that she saw Arthur Pendragon within the castle walls."

The man's whole body goes rigid, the cool, collected air about him dissipating within seconds. He leans forward ever so slightly, his cool eyes fixed on hers as though trying to read her, and Evelyn tries not to shift in her seat under the scrutiny.

"Is your informant certain?"

The words are ambivalent and careful, but she knows there's an unspoken threat in them. If it turns out that the Once and Future King has not actually returned, Evelyn will not see the repercussions of such a mistake, but her informant certainly will.

"Yes, sir," she says without hesitation. "I have faith in my informants. We believe that's why the Guard have convened earlier than expected. With Emrys away, they must decide what they are to do about the situation."

"We'll need to change our plans in accordance with this new development," he says, standing up and pulling the hood back over his face.

She doesn't watch as he walks around her and towards the door, understanding that they're camaraderie is temporarily gone. But then there is a hand on her shoulder and she turns in shock to see the Judge looking down at her with a small smile. He gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"You did well, Evelyn," he tells her. "Rest easy in the fact that you have aided us once again."

He pulls his hand back without waiting for her reply, leaving her to stare after him in shock, and leaves the room without another word. Evelyn sits there for a few seconds, dumbfounded by the gesture he just displayed. It is not the kindness he showed her that has her at a loss for words. He has been nothing but kind with her since the day they met, but this was different. She just can't seem to explain how.

When she walks out of the room, after a few minutes of thought, she catches the Judge halfway through his address to the people below. He is descending down the stairs, and Evelyn leans against the railing to watch.

"-in our battle against the tyranny of a prejudiced governing body," he announces, his voice carrying across the room even though he isn't speaking all that loud. "And so I ask that those new to our ranks, those who have not yet earned the right to bear our mark, step forward."

Older followers clear out of the way as a handful of new recruits step towards the edge of the large square tile in the center of the floor. They hold themselves stock still and square-shouldered, like soldiers at attention, and the Judge approaches them silently. He motions towards the square tile, a signal for Seth to open the vault.

A second later, the nearly invisible line in the tile splits as the vault opens up. An iron cage, twelve by twelve feet in size and perhaps nine feet in height, is slowly raised. There's a single figure in the very center. He's huddled in on himself, as far from the cold iron sides as he can get. What may have once been shimmering, insect-like wings protrude from his back, shredded and broken. He looks up and around the room with a youthful face. But Evelyn knows he could be thousands of years old, despite how he looks as though he's just become an adult.

"Sir?" one of the recruits says as the Judge approaches the cage.

He nods for the recruit to speak.

"What if it kills us?"

The Judge pauses in that, a show he has put on since he first began, before saying firmly, "If you cannot hold your own against a crippled Faerie, you most certainly will not be able to hold your own against a trained Guard."

He holds the door open, just enough for them to slip into the cage, and gestures for them to enter. Despite the obvious frailty of the Faerie within, he still has the strength to stand as the five recruits walk in, every part of him seeming to bristle like the fur on a startled cat. The clang of the cage shutting echoes through room. As if automatic, the people down in the room begin to tap their feet in a rhythm much like a heartbeat. Evelyn turns away as the first recruit attacks the Faerie. She's seen this too many times for it to hold her interest anymore.

The sound of metal on flesh and razor-like wings crashes against her ears as she walks away, the hum of faint magic setting her one edge. As she reaches the door at the end of the walk, she hears the sound of skin breaking and a very human scream, followed by the Judge raising his voice over the din.

"When one falls, we keep going," he announces, the rest of his followers joining in when he continues with one final sentence.

"Only the strong can prevail."


End file.
